


Triumvirate

by LuminiaAravis



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anxiety, Aquaphobia, Arranged Marriage, Character Development, Cultural Differences, Depression, Developing Relationship, Female Protagonist, Feminist Themes, Forsworn, Gen, Homoeroticism, Magic, Magical Accidents, Male Homosexuality, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Panic Attacks, Platonic Romance, Pre-Canon, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Skyrim Civil War, Slow Burn, Stormcloaks, Suicide Attempt, Thieves Guild, Triumvirate, Ulfric is a greedy bastard, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminiaAravis/pseuds/LuminiaAravis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine that the last Dragonborn was not one dragon in the body of a mortal, but one dragon's spirit split into three. In Skyrim's darkest hour, it's not up to one lone champion to save the world, but three. First, they have to find each other, put aside their own hangups and moral differences, and find the strength to work through obstacles as a team. Because every shout has three words of power, and each of the three Dragonborn can only use one of them...<br/>Follow my three original characters - a stubborn, valiant warrior who would do anything for her freedom, a criminally insane master thief with a terrifying track record, and a perpetually cheerful sorceress who struggles to control her own powers - as they try to not kill each other long enough to save Skyrim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MARK I

**Author's Note:**

> THIS STORY IS RATED "MATURE" FOR THEMES OF VIOLENCE, SELF-HARM, AND DUBIOUS CONSENT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Mark, my second-born and most well-loved Skyrim character.

4E 201  
Rain's Hand   
11 PM  
The Marketplace  
Riften, Skyrim

He felt nothing but dead air in his limbs. He felt that, surely, his bones and muscles and blood had left him weeks ago, his stomach and lungs and heart had turned to ash months before now, and only his brain was left, screaming for release, trapped in a body that was composed of spite and fear, a grey ghost of a man.

He stole away to the lower ring of docks, below the market, and slumped against the stone wall. He shut his eyes tight, wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed as hard as he could, threw his head back, and moaned. He had promised himself that he could make all the noise he wanted, now that it didn't matter. He had promised himself that he could scream and cry and swear, now that he knew it had all been for nothing.

He opened his eyes the slightest bit, looked towards the stars, and thought, _Please, I promise I'll let you do anything you want to me, just let me breathe. Torture me, starve me out, but please don't let anyone hear me cry. Please let me catch my breath, please, I'm going to pass out._

His thin chest rattled as he tried to control his breathing. He consciously sucked the air in and forced it back out, keeping a frightening tempo. He waited. When no help came, he slammed his eyes shut again, and bit down on the insides of his cheeks. He muttered every swear word he could think of under his breath. He slammed his back against the stone wall over and over, and took note of the lack of human organs inside his empty shell of a body.

He started to cry out loudly, partly screaming, partly sobbing, partly moaning.

It wasn't so much that he wasn't warm, and dry, and of full stomach. It was that he hadn't been for months. Going on a year. He could remember that warm and dry and full were good things, things he had been trying to be, but could not remember being.

That was part of the reason he hated panic attacks. For some reason, his body could not recall the sensations of warmth and health. He was starving, but his appetite had left him long before. Keeping water down had been little short of a miracle.

He felt like jumping out of his skin. He felt strong, capable, driven by sheer terror; he felt the urge to get up and run, and he could not think of anywhere far enough to go to. He felt the need to tear himself to shreds, but he knew he didn't have the energy.

Minutes passed. He mumbled to himself. He went over multiplication facts, breathing them like a prayer. _Two twice is four, Two thrice is six, Two four times is eight, two five times is ten._ But that was too easy. _Seven twice is fourteen, seven thrice is twenty-one, seven four times is twenty-eight._ That was better. He did sevens, eights, and nines before his breathing settled. He skipped the tens, and did the elevens and twelves. By the time he got to _Twelve twelve times is one-hundred forty-four_ , he was much calmer.

Then it hit him; the fatigue, the thirst, the hunger, the early autumn chill, the damp from the lake. He couldn't remember the last time his eyes hadn't burned with tired and his head hadn't been pounding like a war drum.The fatigue and the aches weren't so bad. The part that terrified him was that he couldn't remember what else there was. All these weeks, these months, going on the better part of a year, he had told himself that all he had had to do was hold on. To wait. To hold it together, anticipating something.

And he realized that whatever it was, it wasn't coming. There was nothing waiting for him out there. Nothing at all.

He doubled over his knees again, heartbroken all over again at the bad news, and heaved a second round of sobs and coughs. Blood and snot stained his hands and elbows and the ends of his matted hair.

There was really nothing for it, then.

He was coming apart at the seams, he could no longer keep a mental list of everything that was wrong with him, there was too much to keep track of, too much that needed fixing. He dragged himself to the edge of the dock, and a dead little something, what was left of his heart, he supposed, fluttered in his chest. He lay flat on his stomach, ribs and hipbones digging into the sour planking, and looked into the canal.

He might as well have been looking over a thousand-foot cliff. This was idiotic. This was horrible. He hated the water. He reached out a trembling hand and palmed the surface, cold and smooth as glass. He recoiled, clutching the ends of the dock for dear life, his head and shoulders jutting out into infinity.

In the dim torchlight from the sconces around the Ratway, he could make out a blurred reflection. His skin was sallow, his cheeks were sunken, his eyes were fallen. He was unshaven, hair was matted and tangled to his skull, his ears stuck out at what he thought was a suspicious angle.

Had he been handsome before? He could hardly believe the transformation from dowdy, boyishly handsome student to this. Gone were the reading glasses, gone was the high, starched collar and neckerchief, gone was his pleasingly round smooth chin, gone was his shining chestnut hair.

This was it, he finally _looked_ the part. He looked like one of those petulant, marginalized people who really didn't have their acts together. He grinned, enjoying an inside joke at his own expense. He sort of _was_ one of those petulant, marginalized people, and he _really_ didn't have his act together. Far from it, actually.

You think that there's a barrier that has to be crossed to go from respectable pencil-pusher to homeless tumor on society, but there isn't. And the thing is, you don't know it until it happens to you.

It got colder, but just by a bit, and it started to rain. Slowly. But it picked up in no time. He came to his senses and got away from the deadly, deadly lake. He huddled in the vestibule in front of the heavy iron door on the inner canal dock. He shook with each new sheet of rain, he breathed with each strike of thunder.

He strained at the iron door to the catacombs beneath Riften, but it was locked tightly, and with a very high-quality lock. He could tell it was an expensive lock just by looking at it. By the size of the keyhole, the weight of the handle as he tried to prise the door open. It was like the one on his father's old safe, back at home. He battled with the door, just to have something to do, something so spend energy on, because if he sat still, it was all over. He could not admit to himself that he was spent, could not allow himself to rest.

He muttered through clenched teeth: _Thirteen twice is twenty-six! Thirteen thrice is thirty-nine!_ , spitting out the words like he meant them each harm.

Sometimes he found the strength do go on. Most of the time, really. But there was something about tonight. Maybe it was because he had failed at something so stupidly simple. Maybe it was because he had let someone down, for the first time in a long time. He hadn't just ruined his own fortunes, he had ruined someone else's. The first person who had spoken to him like he was a human being in weeks. And he had _royally_ fucked it up.

All it took was one night of not being strong enough. He hadn't been allowed to say, No, tonight I'm allowing myself some time off from trying not to slip into the abyss. He looked up once more into the sky, attacking him with rain.

It was hard to believe that he, the author of all things, was going to die. Was it true? Was this the end? Was there really no more promise? Had he really reached his limit? After all those years of encouragement and careful child-rearing, after all those years of being told he had a bright future, after all those years of believing in himself, was this truly the night he learned to disagree? Was this truly his final hour? Could he really just end all of existence by dying?

All it took was one night of not being strong enough.

And he was tired, oh, so tired, as he drew what was left of his empty, grey body up from the dock, out of the halo of torchlight. He padded over to the edge of the canal again. The rain, oh, the rain, which he hated, had become a succour. The blisters on his feet became a tether to life.

It wasn't water below him, but the depths of Oblivion itself.

Was that night tonight?

Was this the night, the hour, the minute, the second, that he let himself rest?

"Is that you, lad?"

He turned very slowly at the familiar voice, toes curled around the edging of the docks, already bound in mind and heart to the canal, already having promised it his soul.

There he stood, the man with the mission. The thief looking for new recruits, the wolf among sheep, the ever-sturdy one with the red hair. He had taken off the overcoat he had worn earlier, and stood in the iron doorway in a loose pair of trousers and a casual tunic, spun heavily but worn soft through wear, looked like.

The thief looked perplexed. "What're you doing out in the rain, lad?"

The boy on the edge of the docks blinked. "I haven't anywhere else to go," he said.

"Er, I mean, I thought you were in jail."

"I was," the boy said, now audibly struggling for air again, "but I broke out." He choked down a sob with every breath. It hadn't cost him much to break out of the cell; it had been easy, really; but admitting it suddenly took all the energy it had consumed out of him at once, like a tax-collector come to call.

He turned to face the canal again, unable to stand still, and he reeled, the rain urging him on, pushing him down, down, down. The red-haired thief reached out and grabbed the back of his collar and held him fast.

"Easy, lad!" he said, voice like honey. Another hand wrapped around the boy's chest and guided him back towards the iron door, out of the rain once more.

The feel of a human hand over his heart both disturbed and thrilled him to his core. Perhaps he had been wrong about himself - grey emptiness could not feel warm curls of reluctant desire, desire for himself, selfish wonderment, the stirrings of hope like a tree growing from the ashes of a forest fire.

The boy fell to sit on his insteps, staring at the thief's boots. He braced himself on his hands and knees and forced himself to breathe, gasping again. The thief rubbed small circles on his back, mumbling trifles into his ear, "Shh, it's alright, lad, shh, easy, there we go, deep breaths now, lad, shh. So you're telling me that you broke out of the Riften jail?" the thief asked the boy.

"Yes," the boy forced out. The thief was holding the boy's shoulder gently, but firmly.

"They only put you in there, what, six hours ago? You went in right after they caught you trying to sneak the ring into Brand-Shei's pocket, right?"

"Yes," the boy answered, and he could taste a tinge of vomit on the back of his tongue. He reciprocated the thief's grip. The human presence was addictive.

The thief squeezed the boy's shoulder. "That's got to be a new record," the thief said. "I'm impressed. How did you do it?"

The boy swallowed hard before answering. "I found a shiv hidden under the cot in the jail cell," he said. The guard turned away for a minute, so I used it to jimmy the lock open. I left the cell door unlocked, but closed. When he went out to piss, I left."

"Is that so." The boy looked the thief directly in the eyes. The thief wore a complicated expression, dichotomous in its nature. The boy saw layers of pity for himself, certainly - he was a poor, wanton orphan boy of no more than eighteen, after all - but there was something else behind the pity. Something hungry, something steely. Something resolute. Something cunning.

And beneath that, hurt? Like a bruise that was almost healed, but still visible?

"Well, my lad," the thief said, "since it was partially my fault that you were imprisoned in the first place, I'll do you a favor."

"I'll do anything you ask," the boy said without much thought.

"Selling your soul for a Septim, are you?" the thief asked. "I knew you were riding low, but not that low. If I'd have known, I might not have put you in that situation in the marketplace earlier today. I'd have bought you a meal at the Bee and Barb instead."

The boy snorted. "It wouldn't have done me any better," he said. The honesty and sarcasm washed his mouth of the taste of bile. "I don't know if I can survive any more of your favors." Taking the dagger out of his chest and putting it into someone else, even at such a small magnitude, was exponentially gratifying.

"I was going to give you a second chance at this initiation thing, but if you'd rather not, well, then."

"What's your challenge?" the boy asked lamely, meeting the thief's eyes through his sopping wet bangs.

The thief reached into his boot and pulled out a small metal spindle and a dull knife, handing them to the boy. "Pick that lock. Right now," he said, indicating the iron door.

The boy looked at the lock blearily. "That lock's been crafted by a master, it probably costs about five thousand Septims," he said. "Good, good," the thief encouraged. "You know your locks. This one in particular was made special for my organization. There isn't another one in Tamriel like it."

"What happens if I open it?" the boy asked. "Then whatever awaits inside is yours," the thief replied. "A warm bed, a belly full of mead, and I'll even throw in a clean set of clothes and a bath. On second thought, make that a _mandatory_ bath. I don't want everyone getting whatever you have. Looks like a nasty case of ataxia."

The boy's hands were heavy. Almost too heavy. He gritted his teeth and got on his knees, so the lock was at his eye level. "I suppose I only get the one pick?" The thief nodded. "And what if I fail?"

"Nothing," the thief said. "Personally, I have a soft spot for lost souls like yourself. Maybe I'll go easy on you, buy you a bottle of mead, and kick your sorry arse out."

So this was it. The thief moved to stand directly behind the boy. He promised himself something new, right then, right there. _If I can't pick this damn lock, if I can't bust this door wide open, then I give myself permission to give up. It's alright. This is it. Just look five minutes ahead. Just five more minutes. That's all. Focus. You can focus for five minutes. I know you, you're strong. Focus. And then you can stop being strong._

The boy raised his hands, his thin, shaking hands. The force of fear that had been keeping him alive started to fail. He was heavy, so, so heavy. He placed the paring knife in the lock. Then the pick.

He closed his eyes.

He tensed his right hand, willing it to hold the rusty knife still. He diverted all his strength into his left arm, willing it into fluid, infinitessimal movements. The pick scraped and scratched, bucked and jerked, and mapped out the inside of the lock. The boy could see the tumblers in his mind, now, and pointed the pick in just the right direction, at just the right angle.

Like a lance piercing armor, the pick settled into place. The click was so gentle, the small involuntary slide into place so inconspicuous, that the boy almost missed it.

"Dibella's tits!" the thief swore. "Laddy boy, you just destroyed five thousand Septims worth of security equipment. If I knew you any better, I'd kiss you. Vex is going to _hate_ me for this."

The boy dropped the pick and the knife and collapsed back onto his insteps, falling forwards till his head hit the door. His arms were on fire, his eyes were stuck shut. His stomach, after weeks of submission to perpetual hunger, tied itself in knots. He struggled to curl in on himself. His five minutes was up, he was done being strong, he was finished being responsible and he was through with survival.

It was over.

The last thing he had done was open a stupid lock. At least he had had a bit of closure, turning the fortunes of the red-haired thief for the better, paying for his prior failure.

The thief opened the door and stepped inside. "Follow me, laddie. You earned it." He walked down a cobblestone ramp, disappearing into the Ratway. The boy was unable to get up and follow.

He sat there on the doorstep, allowing the tears to flow freely, allowing his nose to run, allowing himself to make all the ugly crying, coughing, choking noises he had been holding in. It didn't much matter what was down the passageway. It wasn't meant for him.

It was over.

Until, that is, the red-haired thief returned. It wasn't a minute later, though it seemed like an eternity. He knelt down, and brushed the damp hair out of his boy's eyes. The boy couldn't see, he was blind for the time being, but he felt the large, steady, smooth hand against his forehead.

"Lad, I'm so sorry," the thief said. And the boy believed him. The thief moved slowly, encircling the boy with his huge arms, drawing the empty bag of skin and bones towards the fire of his chest.

The comforting sounds he made now were not perfunctory, but genuine. He cradled the tiny thief-to-be gently, ever so gently, as he paced slowly through the Ratway, the underworld of the Rift. The boy turned his head into the redhead's shoulder. It was the weak thing to do; he needed an excuse to keep his eyes closed.

"I wasn't kidding when I said I had a soft spot for lost souls," he said, quieting his voice so only the boy could hear. "I was in your place, once upon a time," he said, "though, I admit, I wasn't nearly as bad off as you. I think you're the worst case I've ever seen, come to think of it. I thought I was being generous, giving you a chance to test yoursef. I thought I was doing you a favor. But really it's _you_  helping _me_. You're worth your weight in gold, lad, with lock-picking skills like you have. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise; you're more valuable than all the jewels in the Rift. And it's not me that's determined your worth, either. It's been in you all along. You. Are. _Priceless._ "

The next thing the boy felt was a bed. He could only sense the gross outline of it, the fact that it was _there_ was almost more than he could handle. His trousers (torn nearly to shreds) and shirt (threadbare by now, belt ruined) were removed. A tiny piece of consciousness piped up, _This is wrong, how indecent!_ but it was overruled by the expansive null that occupied the forefront of his mind.

Lastly, a fleeting brush of lips, like someone tickling his head with a leaf. He felt the lips press to his forehead, right below his hairline, and part slightly as their owner shaped them into an affectionate kiss. The smoothing back of his hair by the thief's hands. A vague pressure as a quilt surrounded him.

"When you wake, ask to see Brynjolf straight away," the thief said. "Good-night, my lad."

"I'm Mark," said the boy.

"Good-night, Mark." Brynjolf of the Thieves Guild of Riften left the room silently, and closed the door to the guest room behind the bar at the Ragged Flagon with an equal lack of noise. He ordered a mead, and drew up a chair at the bar, where he could keep an eye on the tiny apartment.

Vex, Delvin Mallory, Tonilia, Dirge, and Vekel the Man bobbed in and out of conversation with him. Vex sharpened her favorite knife. Delvin had the books out on the table - Mercer wouldn't like that. Didn't like Guild material outside the Cistern. Tonilia sorted through some small gold trinkets on the bartop. Dirge stood stoically at the entrance to the Flagon, biting his nails. Vekel the Man scrubbed the bartop relentlessly, mostly out of habit.

Brynjolf never took his eyes off of the guest bedroom all night, while his future Guildmaster was dead to the world inside.

* * *

Mark felt like there was a mammoth on his chest, pinning him to the pallet bed. Slowly, dully, all the sensations that had escaped him last night before he fell asleep came to him, like water seeping through a dam. The smell of hay and basement damp, the itchy fabric, the crimp in his back.

And how in Oblivion had he managed to start _another_ day with a splitting headache? That clinched it, there was no point in getting up. He wasn't going to have anything to do with his day getting any worse than it already was.

Until he heard his name.

"Fine, Bryn! _Screw Vex, I never listen to her anyway,_ but what about Mercer? What'd'you think he's gonna do when he finds out that you brought another pet home?"

"Vex, this one's different, I tell you, he's a natural --"

"Right. Just like the last ten were."

"What do you want me to say? That I fucked up before? Fine, I'll say it. I fucked up before. But I swear by the Aedra and Daedra that this one puts all the rest to shame, Vex. I'd bet my life that he turns out to be great."

There was a beat of silence. "Would you bet _his_ life on it?" she asked.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Brynjolf replied.

"Your promises are worth less and less every time you make one," Vex said. "I hate to say it out loud, but the last five alone were horrible for your record. Two were caught and jailed on their first assignments. One had his hands cut off, the other was conscripted and sent to fight pirates for the Empire near Hsaarik Head. I'd bet he's dead by now. The middle one was just straight-up killed on, what, his second assignment? The fourth one left the hold after his first debreifing, and the fifth we had to burn after we caught him embezzling."

"You've got a knife in my heart, and you're twisting it, Vex," Brynjolf said darkly.

"It's not my fault. I just stuck the knife in there to stop your heart from bleeding out, you fucking softie."

"So what of the boy's life?" Brynjolf asked.

"How about this," Vex said. "If he makes it through his first assignment and his first six months here in one piece, I won't kill him." "

Deal," Brynjolf said, without hesitation. "And if he makes it, you owe me five hundred coins."

"Sounds good to me," Vex replied. "But what say we make this more interesting?"

"I'm listening," Brynjolf said.

"I can't tell you how sick and tired I am of this fucking game, Bryn. This never-ending search for -- what is it you want? An heir? A sidekick? A fuck partner? I can't take it anymore, this neverending cycle of hopeless cases."

"Well, that's hardly fair, but go on,'" Bryjnolf interjected

"If the boy doesn't make it," Vex continued, "if he dies or is kicked out before he pulls off his first job on his own, and if he doesn't survive the first six months with us, I won't just kill him, I swear by Nocturnal that I'll kill on sight anyone else you bring back to try and take his place." The air went dead for a few moments.

"That's not fair, Vex."

"It is _completely_ fair. You need to man the fuck up, Bryn. This whole master-pupil thing isn't working out. I don't know if you're a shitty teacher, or if you just have a habit of picking shitty students. I don't really care. But you are _not_ putting everyone through this shit again."

"Very...very well."

"Shake on it," Vex demanded.

"Alright."

"Five hundred Septims for you if he lives, and countless other cold-blooded murders if he dies." Vex reiterated. "The boy's life against everything."

"The boy's life against everything," Brynjolf echoed.

* * *

Brynjolf knocked on the spare room door. "Mark? Are you awake, lad?"

"I am," Mark said. He was pleased to note that speaking didn't trigger his reflexes to vomit. Brynjolf opened the door and shuffled halfway to the bed. He was wearing a handsome set of black leather armor, twin swords sheathed at his side. Mark hadn't been able to admire his features the other day, the braids in his hair, the crisp yet easy cut of his beard, the white fire in his irises.

"I see you're, er..."

"Alive?" Mark tried. "It's alright, I was a little surprised myself." The sarcasm felt good, almost natural. Brynjolf crossed the rest of the room and knelt at the bedside. He offered Mark a hand up, and he took it. Brynjolf helped him sit up, and the older thief set the pillow vertically so Mark could lie against it.

The redhead grabbed the grubby pitcher from the sideboard and offered it to Mark. "You could use some water, I expect."

Mark eyed the pitcher warily and shook his head. "No, I'd better not."

"Why not? You must be thirsty."

"I am," Mark replied, "but honestly, I'm afraid to eat. I'd most likely vomit."

Brynjolf's brows bowed slightly with concern. "You've got to eat, lad. I'm no cleric, but even I can see that you're wasting away."

"I know, I know," Mark said. "I'll work on it." Brynjolf smiled briefly and left the bedside to get a chair and empty mug from the bar, returning to place the chair next to the sideboard. He sat, and poured some of the water into the mug. He offered it to Mark. Mark raised an eyebrow. "I'm not gonna make you eat or drink," Brynjolf said, resignedly, "but I didn't rescue you just to have you die down here."

Mark took the mug and brought it to his mouth, letting the water slosh against his closed lips, but not consuming any. "It's not quite as simple as that," Mark said. "I know that if I don't drink, I'll die. But it's not that easy."

Brynjolf leaned against the back of the chair. "I wasn't shitting you when I picked you up, you know. I've been in this trade for the better part of my life, lad. I've seen some people with incredible skills, people who trained and sweat and bled to get where they are. But none of them, not a one, ever had the raw potential that you have. I've seen people who couldn't tell their right from their left become great artists, their media being other people's property, naturally. But you, you're already an artist. Imagine what you could do with the proper training. Imagine that raw talent given a purpose. Do you understand what I'm getting at, lad? No door in Skyrim would be closed to you. Both figuratively and literally."

"You're offering me a position in, what, cat-burglary?"

"Hardly!" Brynjolf scoffed. "I'm talking about a career, a lifetime of grand heists, daring escapes, treasure beyond your wildest dreams. Tell me you don't want to live a life of power and wealth."

"I do," Mark replied. "But I don't think that being here for an extended period of time is a good idea."

Brynjolf scooched the chair forward so he could look Mark dead in the face. "Why not, lad?"

"First off, I'm not sure if I'm going to be alive to see my illustrious career take off."

"Don't talk like that," Brynjolf said, his voice suddenly soft and low.

"I'm only being honest," Mark said. "My body wants to live but my mind wants to die, and up until last night, it was a tie. But I think my mind is planning its revenge."

Brynjolf jerked forward and grabbed Mark's hand, perhaps a bit too tightly. "Please, don't say things like that," he implored, voice little more than a whisper. "You're worth so much more than that. Do you understand, lad?"

Mark spoke before thinking. "I can't believe the lengths you'd go to for five hundred coins."

Brynjolf froze. "How...?"

"I understand that you've made a significant investment in me," Mark continued. "I'm worth a great deal, monetarily, as evidenced by Vex's price on my head. And your honor is on the line with me. Get me into shape, turn me into the bright little star pupil that you've always wanted but never made good on."

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," Brynjolf warned.

"I can't talk about anything, can I?" Mark rebutted. Brynjolf rose from his chair and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Mark took a sip of water.

About ten minutes later, Brynjolf came rushing back to Mark's bedside as retching noises filled the Ragged Flagon. He placed a bowl beneath the young thief, and drew a blanket up over his heaving shoulders.

"I told you so," Mark managed through spasms, gasps for breath, and watery stomach acid in his mouth.

Brynjolf rubbed circles on the boy's back. "I want to apologize," he said. "I really do. I understand if you don't trust me, after what I did earlier. It was wrong to bet on your life. And as for the others who came before you, I admit that I made a mistake. Well, several mistakes, actually. And I can freely admit that I don't remember all their names, but I swear by all that is good and holy that there is something about you, something within you, that I've never seen or felt before. Yes, I'm drawn to people like you, and yes, I get attached to people very quickly, especially when I'm convinced that someone needs me.

"I just can't get over the fact that there's something about you I can't understand. I read people, it's a gift of mine. When I read you I see an enormous spirit, broader than the sky itself, buried by debris of doubt and drudgery and tragedy. You're a very intense person, Mark, I can tell - your fire is dark and strong and hot as the fires of Oblivion. But it's buried, tucked deep, deep away. You have to know that there's something special about yourself, about your ways and your strengths and your smarts, something that everyone can see but no-one can explain.

"And honestly I completely understand if you think I'm conning you, if you think I'm going after you for a quick fuck or something like that. But I'm not, I promise I'm not. And I know my promises aren't worth what they used to be, but they're all we've got. The both of us are going to have to survive by my word alone for a few weeks. You think you can manage that?"

Through the choking and the vomit and the tears, Mark nodded "Yes."

"Good. Then, finish puking your guts up and we'll see about getting you cleaned up, lad."

* * *

Mark was extremely prudish by nature. He had never liked anyone to see him nude, not even his own parents. Brynjolf had asked him to strip as he got some hot water together for a bath, but Mark sat there in bed, chilly, with the blankets hiked well over his waist and chest, still clothed. It was bad enough that Brynjolf had changed his clothes while he was asleep. There was _no way_ he was getting naked again.

Realistically, he had no means to resist. He had finally come full to terms with the fact that he was about as strong as a wet piece of straw. He supposed he could always shout "Fire!" in the case of an emergency, and see who came running. But no, that would be even worse, because then _more_ people would see his bits and pieces.

And then there was that _thing_ on his right breast. The disgusting _thing_ that he had tried to dig out of his skin with a hot knife, working on it tirelessly in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, that knot of fried nerves and balled-up vengence. Absolutely nobody was allowed to see it.

Brynjolf came back with a large cauldron of steaming water and a relatively grime-free towel. "I know it's a bit chilly down here, lad, but the water's nice and warm. It'll help. Who knows, maybe a bath will perk you up enough to eat something, eh?"

Mark didn't budge.

"Mark?" Brynjolf said, putting the cauldron down. "Laddie, you're gonna have to get out of bed." Mark pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. "No? What's the problem?" Brynjolf asked, frowning.

"I don't want. To."

"Don't want to...?"

Mark heaved a sigh. "I don't want to take a bath."

"You _need_ one. You're dirty and lousy and you probably have ataxia. I'm not letting you out into the bar until you're clean. Er, cleaner."

"I _know_ ," Mark protested, "and honestly, I'd rather be clean, but -- "

" -- it's not that simple," Brynjolf finished. "By the Nine, is anything simple for you?"

Mark shrugged. "Not anymore, no."

Brynjolf threw him a pitying look before sitting down on the bed next to him. "We're going to be working very, very closely for the next few weeks. Right? So, no matter how derranged your logic is, I need you to explain it to me. I need to be able to understand you, Mark. No matter how twisted your brain is."

Mark wilted a little inside the blanket cocoon. "I'd love to let you pick my brain, only, do you know what you're getting yourself into?"

Brynjolf almost laughed. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I've heard worse. And don't worry, whatever it is, it's in the past. I won't hold it against you."

Mark sighed. "I won't go into detail, but, to be blunt, I'm very body-shy. I hate being naked in front of other people."

"That's all?" Brynjolf asked, rising from the bed, and heading back over to the cauldron as if that settled it.

"Well, more or less," Mark said. "I can bathe myself, really, I can. If you'd step out for five minutes or so."

"It's going to take more than five minutes to get you clean, laddie," Brynjolf said, taking bottles of bath oil out of the cabinet below the sideboard. "You're probably going to see me naked at some point, if that helps. Er, that came out wrong. I didn't mean it to be an innuendo, I'd never get naked in front of you on purpose, er..." It didn't seem like there was anything for it, then.

Mark waited for Brynjolf to come back over to the bed, and the older thief slowly, gently peeled the blankets off him. He revealed a slim frame, bony shoulders, a starved chest, a weak abdomen and tiny hips. The second blanket had been hiding knobbly knees and small ankles and feet. Mark's skin was soft, but sickly colored. He was brown from spending so much time outside, but the brown fell flat on him, lacking the flush of health beneath the surface. His hair was straggly, hanging in matted bunches about his ears.

"Oh, damn me," Brynjolf breathed as he pulled the undershirt off over Mark's head. On Mark's right breast there was a scar, about the size of an apple. At the center was an arcane rune, burned dry and white into his skin, surrounded by angry, flaky red edges. Around the rune were smaller, smoother scars, some red, some purple, leftovers from when Mark had had been determined to literally cut the rune off his chest.

This was the ultimate exposure. His behind and his cock were bare, but that didn't matter. They took a backseat to this disaster of flesh. Mark squirmed. he would have shown them anything. He would rather have opened up any other way, his mouth, his ass, anything. But not this.

The scar wasn't just access to his physical vulnerability, it was a gateway to his past, his thoughts, his fucked-up mind.

Brynjolf's knowledge of his body was now more than intimate, it was unforgivable.

Brynjolf sank to the floor. "Fuck me sideways, I'm so sorry," he murmured.

Mark looked down at him. "This is what I didn't want you to see," he said.

"Why didn't you say something?" Brynjolf asked.

"I did," Mark answered. "I said I was uncomfortable with people seeing my body."

"But you didn't mention -- "

"I know I didn't, because I'm ashamed of it to Oblivion and back. You see those purple marks there?" Mark said, tracing the lines with his fingers. "I did that to myself. Have you honestly seen anything this fucked up? I thought I could cut it off, like scaling a fish. I spent a few months trying. I started small, with a sewing needle, then I went to a paring knife, then a filleting knife. I would get the metal red-hot before I started, so I wouldn't catch an infection from it, or if my hand slipped, there was a chance the wound would cauterize before I bled out too much.

"I would wake up in the morning, have a go at it, maybe try again after lunch, and then once more before I went to bed. I would spend hours on it at a time. Some days, I couldn't get anything else done. My sheets were covered in blood, from when I rolled over in my sleep and opened it up again. I only stopped after I ran away from home because I didn't have regular access to a clean knife or open flame. And, so long as we're being brutally honest, I can't promise that I won't start again."

Brynjolf covered his hand with his mouth, his expression even, but his eyes moist.

"I'm sorry," Mark amended, "but you're the first person I've ever told. I understand it's of little consequence to you, but I feel like I've been bursting to tell. I'm not quite sure why."

"No, no, don't apologize," Brynjolf said thickly. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. You didn't give me permission to undress you."

"It's probably for the best that you did," Mark said, harshly." How could I have told you about this otherwise? What the fuck was I supposed to say?"

"I...I don't know," Brynjolf admitted. "But I do know that you're wrong on one account: This _is_ of consequence to me. Great consequence."

"Right. You want to make sure I'm worth the investment."

Brynjolf shook his head, giving Mark a half-disbelieveing, half-pitying look. "No, lad, it's not that at all. This pain, this not eating, not sleeping, not drinking business, it's all real, isn't it?"

"And it wasn't before?" Mark said, indignantly.

"No, no, no" Brynjolf stammered. "I just thought it was being out and alone in the world that was the problem, but _this_..."

"My problems started long before I left home and escaped into the wild," Mark said. "This isn't new to me."

Brynjolf forced himself to smile a little. "I can see that now, lad. And whatever it is, wherever this road starts and wherever it ends, I'll walk it with you."

"I don't think you want to," Mark said.

"I don't have a choice," Brynjolf replied. "The boy's life against everything, remember? I'll be damned if I sit back and watch you die. I'll do whatever it takes."

Something flickered in the space where Mark's heart used to be. There was a moment of doubt, in which he remembered what Vex had said, that Brynjolf's promises were worthless, like counterfeit iron Septims painted with cheap gold. Mark had no doubt that Brynjolf's intentions were good, his motives pure, but there would always be that _what if?_ at the back of his mind.

The flicker gave way to a small flame. It looked like Brynjolf actually cared what happened to him. It might have been a business deal, but Brynjolf had already proved himself a better man than anyone else in Mark's life by not bailing out on it. Mark's parents had bailed. Carrow had bailed. Jack had bailed. And so far, Brynjolf hadn't. He had seen the ugliest part of Mark's body and soul and he was still here.

Mark reached out and placed a hand on either side of Brynjolf's head. "I am the worst kind of insane. If you want to leave, go now. I won't blame you."

Brynjolf put his hands over Mark's. "You can't be crazy," he said, mostly to himself. "Crazy people don't know they're crazy."

"Didn't you hear me?" Mark said, slightly louder. "I am slowly killing myself. I'm a sinking ship. If you want to get off, get off now. I can't promise that I'll make it."

Brynjolf's expression was still even, his face a masterpiece of fluidity, his lips opening and closing as he searched for words, his eyebrows rising and falling as he searched for the correct emotion. "It's a good thing I can swim."

"Good, because I'm shit at it."

"Is that why you were standing over the canal? Were you trying to drown yourself?"

"Yes, yes I was. And I don't feel guilty about it."

"I'm not saying you should."

"Good," Mark said.

"Good. Now, the bath's getting cold."

* * *

"Everything that I am is riding on you," Brynjolf said. "My skill as a thief, my word of honor, my livelihood. I won't be able to show my face around here if we fail. Twenty years long service, all down the drain." Mark stared at a blank spot on the wall as Brynjolf kissed his thin fingers. "You are my lifeline, lad. Only you have the power to save us both. My word, your actions." The older thief's hands rolled over Mark's neck and shoulders, scrubbing them clean of both dirt and tension. He worked his way to the ends of Mark's dark brown hair, carefully untying the knots with his fingers, moving his way up to Mark's scalp.

It was surreal. Something in Mark resented the fact that after all that time he had spent washing someone else, someone was washing him now, as if he were incapable of doing it himself. This was obviously a sign of distrust on Brynjolf's part, that he thought Mark was so fragile and helpless.

"Let me do it," Mark snapped, and grabbed the damp cloth from Brynjolf. He scrubbed angrily at his shoulders and forearms, at his face, his neck, his scar. Dead skin flaked off his chest, and small beads of blood started to grow around the edges of the rune.

Brynjolf sighed. "Please, don't hurt yourself," he said.

"I'm not hurting myself, I'm getting clean," Mark insisted. "It doesn't hurt. I actually hardly feel it." It was the truth. Those small drops of blood were completely normal, a nuisance more than anything.

Brynjolf placed his hand over the scar, protecting it from the washcloth. Mark sucked in a sharp breath, cringing. Nobody else was allowed to touch it. Brynjolf ran a line of kisses over Mark's right shoulder. "Please," kiss, "I don't want," kiss, "to see you," kiss, "bleed like this."

Brynjolf pressed his hand down hard on the scar, making Mark wince. "Does that hurt?"

"Yes it does, thank-you for asking," Mark hissed. "What the fuck are you doing to me?"

"Maybe if it hurt, you wouldn't do it," Brynjolf said. He pulled his hand away, his palm speckled with Mark's blood.

"Maybe," Mark repeated. "Maybe. I honestly have no idea." Brynjolf let Mark continue scrubbing the shit out of his arms and legs, and finished working on the young thief's hair. "I did warn you about this," Mark added. "You don't have to be here if it bothers you."

Brynjolf tucked his chin into the hollow of Mark's shoulder and wrapped his free hand around Mark's middle, and the boy crumbled under his touch. "I know what I signed up for, I'm just trying to protect you from yourself." 

Mark laughed coldly. "Nobody's been able to so far. But I appreciate the effort."

"Nobody's been able to - but has anyone ever been this close to you? Your parents? Your brothers and sisters? Your friends from back where you grew up?"

"This all started when they simultaneously decided to go on and have lives without me."

"I'm sorry," Brynjolf said, and planted a firm kiss on Mark's collarbone. "So, how does it feel, finally getting your revenge on your friends and family? You're here, and they're back at home living horrible mundane lives."

Mark smiled smugly. "Damn good. It feels _damn_ good. _Fuck_ them, fuck _all_ of them."

"That's the spirit, lad." Mark's headache subsided somewhat as Brynjolf's fingers applied gentle pressure to the top of his head, rubbing the roots of his hair in circles, and dousing him with warm water to rinse away the grime.

When they were done, Brynjolf hoisted Mark bodily out of the tub, carried him to the bed, and rubbed his head and shoulders with a dry towel. Mark pulled on a fresh undershirt and pair of trousers, took a sip of water, and allowed Brynjolf to tuck him in.

"What's the matter, lad?" Brynjolf asked, as he ran his fingers through Mark's hair, now clean and dry.

"I'm just used to doing this for other people, I suppose. People who couldn't care for themselves, and I hated them for it."

Brynjolf gave Mark another of his exasperated smiles. "I never said you couldn't take care of yourself if you wanted," he said. "Well, maybe not in your current state, but still. I'm caring for you because you're worth it to me."

Mark bit his lower lip. "You'll do anything to win that bet, won't you?"

* * *

As it turned out, a hot bath was just what Mark needed. He never would have pinned his hopes on something so frivolous to take some of the edge off his razor-sharp foul mood. He sat up in bed, clean and warm (this time from the inside out instead of the outside in; maintenance of his own body tempreature was a sign of improvement), buried in a book. He made himself take a sip of water at the top of every page.

The book was fairly short, a reference volume on something called "Shadowmarks." According to the book, there was a whole system of secret symbols that Mark would have to look for and memorize if he was going to be a professional master thief. There were symbols for "The Guild," "safe house," "loot here," "no loot here," "danger," and a few more.

Mark found a nub of charcoal on the sideboard and copied the symbols in the book onto a separate piece of paper, taking notes on each. It was trivial work, but it kept his mind off of things. It even boosted his mood a little, made him feel like he was doing something productive after months of mucking about and not getting a single thing on his to-do list done. He supposed he could manage to forgive himself in time, though. After all, he had been on the run from the law in a foreign country for almost a year.

It was excellent to hold a pencil again, to feel the way that the shaft rested in that little dimple in his ring finger that he only had on his left hand, his writing hand. He cracked a genuine smile as he drew his hand back from his notepaper and saw the familiar dusting of charcoal across the page, where his hand had smeared his notes. He checked the ridge of his left hand and, sure enough, it was shiny and black with pencil leftovers. He gave the paper a quick sniff just to make sure it was real. It smelled like office work, just like it always did.

Mark grinned in spite of himself. It was a fleeting happiness, yes, but it was a break from the horrible, null cloud of panic that had been keeping him alive lately. Satisfied for now, he took another sip of water, and moved on to the next book.

He was going to have to send Brynjolf out for more.

* * *

The next time Mark woke up, he felt something that was curiously close to contentment. He figured that the room he was using was more or less his for the time being, so there came a sheltered sort of comfort from lying in bed, bedded down in blankets and a pillow that smelled like himself - a _clean_  version of himself, which was much to his liking.

It was about this time that his appetite came back from extended leave.

He dragged himself out of bed, and, wrapped tightly in a wool blanket, padded quietly down the short hallway into the bar area.

The Ragged Flagon was dingy at best. An assortment of men and women sat at scrubbed-wooden tables, brooding over bowls of lukewarm soup and tankards of ale. They all wore the same armour, the leather curiass with belts across the chest and a Mandarin collar, in varying shades of brown or black. The stagnant pool of water in the center of the room made Mark more than a little nervous, but he forced himself to ignore it and sidled up to the bar.

"Excuse me," he said to the barkeep. The lanky man turned to face him. "You're Brynjolf's new protege, eh?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Mark replied. "And he said I should ask for him, please."

"Okay, so what do you want me to do about it?" the barkeep asked.

"Er, can you see if he's in?" A white-blond woman snorted with laughter. Mark rolled his eyes. He hadn't thought it would be _this_ difficult to rejoin the human race.

The barkeep threw the blond woman a quick glare over Mark's shoulder. "Sure, sure, I'll let him know you're here. Don't wander off." Mark took a seat at the bar. He folded his hands on the bartop and crossed his ankles tightly in front of him. He sat up poker-straight and kept his head high and his shoulders square.

The barkeep shuffled down the hallway where Mark's room was and opened a wardrobe, almost out of sight from where Mark was sitting. The barkeep stuck his head inside - much farther than he should have been able to, really - and shouted, "Bryn, your sidekick's awake! Come here and feed him before he drops dead on my counter!"

There was a beat of silence, and Mark supposed the barkeep was listening for a reply. He must have got one, because he continued, "I don't care what you were doing, he's your responsibility, get out here and deal with him!" He slammed the wardrobe shut and traipsed back to the bar. "Bryn's a good customer. He has a tab open. Order whatever you want," he said. "My name's Vekel," he added. "Vekel the Man, they call me."

"Mr. Vekel, sir," Mark started, "is there maybe a menu I could look at?"

There it was again. The blond woman hiccuped trying to keep her laughter contained.

Vekel gave Mark a disparaging look. "Not really, just the usual fare. If your average housewife can cook it, so can I. Don't expect anything fancy. I do soup, bread, and spirits. Roasts every third day."

"Can I get a roast today, then?" Mark asked.

"Do you see one on the fire?" Vekel asked sarcastically. Mark peeked over the bartop to look at the fireplace behind the bar.

"No," he answered.

"Then no, you can't have a roast today."

Mark slouched on his stool, pulling the blanket around himself more tightly. "Water, please."

Vekel rolled his eyes. "Finally, he makes up his mind. Divines help me if he needs anything else."

"That five hundred Septims is as good as mine," the blond woman snickered. Mark recognized her voice from before. Her name was Vex. She was the one who had bet against his life. He had to turn around to see.

Vex had silvery blond hair that was almost white, golden eyes, and a thin, pointed face. A dark-skinned girl with a chignon knot in her hair had joined her at the table, and both women swept Mark with appraising eyes.

_I_ 'm _not fucking deaf_ , Mark thought. He was about to address them directly and tell them to _Shut their whore mouths_ when Brynjolf came spilling out of the infinitely deep wardrobe. He was dressed casually again, his hair tousled from sleep.

"Mark, sorry, lad, I was asleep. Ye gods, ye forget what time it is when you live underground. So, what's for dinner?" He pulled up a stool next to Mark and blinded the boy with a smile.

"Sarcasm and classist undertones," Mark said. "But for eating, I'm just going to start with water."

"Have some soup, too," Brynjolf insisted. He waved at Vekel over the bartop, and Vekel came back to the pair of thieves with two bowls of steaming broth. "Apple cabbage stew," Brynjolf said, picking up the bowl and slurping it down. "It's good. Vekel used to be the chef at the Bee and Barb, until Maven Black-Briar had him fired."

"Why was he fired?" Mark asked, holding his bowl close to warmth, but not consuming any of the stew.

"I was caught embezzling," Vekel interjected. "I owed someone money, and, well, chefs don't make a killing, as a rule." He slammed a tankard of mead down in front of Brynjolf. "And I'm half-blind, not half-deaf, you cock-sucking snowback."

Brynjolf grinned. "Skeever-fucking bastard," he replied, and took a deep drink from the flagon. He scanned Mark with his eyes. "Are you going to eat that or just look at it?"

Mark gripped the bowl more tightly. "I'm going to, I just need to wrap my head around it first," he said.

"Let me guess, it's not quite that simple," Brynjolf recited.

"Exactly," Mark affirmed.

Brynjolf placed a gentle hand on Mark's shoulder. "Baby steps, lad. Just take a sip, and if that sits well, we can have more."

Before Mark could consider the ramifications of consuming food, the wardrobe opened again. Out strode a man, about five-and-a-half feet high, wearing a pitch-black curiass with striking golden buckles and studs on it. His hair was grey and wavy, and cut short around his ears in the front and longer in the back. He was clean-shaven, except for the scruffle that got caught in his finely-wrinkled chin.

His eyes were cold, calculating, tactical, hungry, vigilant. Mark thought he looked rather like a wolf leading the small pack of thieves that followed him out of the wardrobe. There was a wood-elf, an Imperial man, and a shorter girl. The man in the black-and-gold curiass strode swiftly, purposefully across the bar area and placed a black velvet purse upon the bartop. "For last month, Vekel," he said, his voice simultaneously refined and raw, both cold and familiar.

For a single, heart-stopping moment, he looked at Mark. Mark felt like he was staring down a predator. Is this what a rabbit felt like before the wolf's jaws closed on its neck and it knew no more? Is this what the fish felt like before the great bear struck it dead in an instant? The man's eyes were like steel, ice-cold steel, boring into him, razor-sharp, and stainless.

And then the moment was over, and the man swept away from the bar, his band of three thieves following him, keeping his brisk pace. He crossed the pool in the middle of the room and left through the door on the other side. "Who - who was that?" Mark asked, a little breathless.

"That was Mercer Frey, lad," Brynjolf answered. "The Guildmaster."

* * *

As it turned out, there was a whole second court behind the wardrobe in the Ragged Flagon. Brynjolf let Mark wander back there one afternoon, stating, "You know, lad, you're gonna have to go back there eventually, and honestly, I'm tired of being your damn librarian. Go pick out your own fucking books."

So Mark carefully edged his way along the court, sticking to the far outer wall so as to avoid the pool of water in the center. Again, with the water features? He might have to feign sick so he wouldn't have to face certain death every time he wanted to read.

The bookcases were on the far end of the room (of course), and Mark didn't pay much attention to the thieves he bumped into along the way. He skipped over "Accords of Madness," "Myths of Sheogorath," and chose an exotic-looking book, one that he'd never seen before, called "Nerevar Moon and Star." But instead of taking the risk of walking back around the lake of death, he stat down at one of the long tables and started to read.

He was halfway through the first page when he heard a quiet _thwup, thwup, thwup_. He looked up, and saw a thief in brown armor, hood pulled over his head, practicing archery on a straw bulls-eye. He'd seen people shoot before, obviously, but never with such rhythmic calm. It was almost like a song. _Thwup_ -two-three-four. _T_ _hwup_ -two-three-four. And the grouping was impressive, to boot.

"Nerevar Moon and Star" wasn't making much sense anyway; it alluded to events and places and people that Mark had never heard of. So he tucked the book back on the shelf and got out his blank journal, and took a feather pen off the desk in the corner. He stat back down and began to scribble notes on the archer. He drew the angles he saw, the distance to the target, the speed at which the arrows flew, the percentage of success at getting the arrows within the bulls-eye's innermost ring.

Mercer Frey walked into the court. Keeping that same brisk pace as last time, he strode over to his desk and sat down. He pulled a thin leather portfolio out of the top drawer and flipped the pages to find where he'd left off. He paused, stroking his stubbly chin. He reached for his pen.

When his fingers grasped air, he looked up. No pen. He sighed. "Who in  _Oblivion_ has my good pen?" he bellowed, not bothering to stand up from his chair. The court went silent. Nobody moved. Mark gulped suspiciously, and very, very slowly folded the feather pen into his notebook and put the notebook down. "How many times do I have to tell you ingrates that  _nobody_ is to touch my desk?"

A young tawny-blond girl, the same one who had accompanied Mercer out earlier, spoke up, "Come on, guys, just hawk it over."

"What makes you think  _we_ have it?" said a Bosmer thief, sitting in the corner at a grindstone.

"This is just fucking  _great_ ," Mercer groaned. "The mystery of the stolen quill, right in the middle of a room of professional thieves. Just one of the many perks of this fucking job." Mark could appreciate the irony in that, but Mercer must have been insane if he thought that raising his voice and threatening his employees was any way to get his property back. 

"Come on, everyone, I'm not your fucking father. I'm not going to frisk every single one of you. Just hand the damn thing over so I can do my books," Mercer coaxed. When nobody made a move, Mercer sighed and put a hand to his forehead. "Fine, fine. Whoever returns it gets a nice shiny gold Septim, how's that? Just to show you how proud daddy is of your adorable little sleight-of-hand tricks."

"Two and I'll tell you who did it," Mark piped up. Everyone turned to stare at him. 

"Who the hell are you?" Mercer asked, squinting a little to see Mark from across the court. 

"I'm -- " Mark almost said _I'm Brynjolf's new boy_ , but he decided to go with his name instead. From what he had gathered, Brynjolf's name didn't carry the same weight that it had in the past. "I'm Mark."

"Mark," Mercer repeated. "Mark fucking who?" _  
_

"Mark fucking Quest, sir," he answered.

Mercer strode slowly across the court. Mark stood up to meet him. Mercer grabbed a hold of Mark's left wrist, turned his arm palm-up, and rolled up Mark's sleeve. There was nothing there. "You're not official, yet, Mark fucking Quest," he said. "According to Guild law, I could kill you right here and now for being in here."

"Would you ever find out who took your pen if you did, I wonder."

"Great. Just what I need. Another wise-ass." Mercer ran his tongue over his top teeth and let go of Mark's wrist. "So, who took my pen, Mr. Quest?"

"Let me see the gold first," Mark said.

Mercer's mouth curled into a dark smile. "Better a wise-ass than a dumb-ass," he said, and casually pulled two Septims out of a purse at his hip. He flashed them in front of Mark's face. "So, which of these sneaky bastards took daddy's favorite pen?"

Mark reached behind him and picked up his notebook, and leafed to the page where he had tucked Mercer's quill pen. He took the pen out, placed it in his open left hand. "Me." He held out his right hand, too, and waggled his fingers expectantly.

Mercer burst out laughing. "By the Eight, you're clever," he said. He took the pen and gingerly placed the two Septims in Mark's hand. 

"I'm a businessman," Mark said. 

"You are a fucking  _con-artist_ ," Mercer corrected. 

"And honestly I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take your pen. I just saw it lying there -- "

"And what's this notebook?" Mercer asked, taking the small leather volume from Mark's hands. He thumbed through the pages of charcoal drawings, lists, and mathematical calculations.

"It's my new commonplace book," Mark answered. "I can learn and memorise things if I write them down -- " The more Mercer read, the more concerned he looked. He walked over to a small cookstove in the corner, and dropped the book into the fire below a pot of stew. It caught within seconds.

"Do you realize what could have happened if that notebook had fallen into the wrong hands? The little drawings of Brynjolf were  _adorable_ , don't get me wrong. But taking explicit, uncoded notes on Shadowmarks, the architecture of our hideout, and a list of our members? How stupid are you?" _  
_

Mark blinked a few times. Mercer was staring him down again. The court was still deadly quiet. "It's no matter," Mark said, "I've committed the entire book to memory, anyway."

Mercer snorted. "That means either one of two things. One, you're a liar. Two, you're a spy. Who are you working for? The Morag Tong? The Summerset Shadows? The Brotherhood? The Penitus Oculatus? If you tell me now I can promise to kill you quickly and get it overwith."

Mark smirked. "I can at least prove I'm not lying. See that book called 'Proper Lock Design'? On the top shelf of that hutch, there? Pick it up. Open it." Mercer beckoned to one of the thieves clad in brown, who fetched the book for him. Mercer opened it.

Mark began to recite, speaking loudly and quickly, all in one breath of air. " _I have encountered many thieves whose sole interest in locks is how to open them and thereby pilfer the protected contents of the room or chest. I have taken it upon myself to devise a system of locks that can defeat such_ _villianous,_ spelled incorrectly, by the way, _intent. The materials used to create a lock are of utmost importance. Shoddy brass or copper will give way to a well placed kick, thereby rendering the lock itself useless. I recommend steel over iron when choosing a material. More robust materials tend to be prohibitively expensive and necessitate the door being made of similar metals. I have been chagrined to stumble across the shattered shell of a wooden chest, it's,_ and the author uses the incorrect form, here; he should have used 'its', without the apostrophe,  _dwarven_ _lock intact and still locked -- "_

"Fucking  _enough_ ," Mercer said, slamming the book shut. "Fine, you have a good memory. But all that means is now I  _will_ have to kill you, whether you're a spy or not, because you've seen and read and heard too much. You've managed to get your grubby little hands on generations of Guild trade secrets in what, four days? And you're not even a member. Not even a temporary one."

"But you won't kill me," Mark said. His knees were shaking, his stomach was convulsing, his chest was tight, and his head was high. But he did not break eye contact with the older thief.

"And why's that?" Mercer asked.

"Because you're going to make full use of my ability to memorize vast amounts of technical information quickly and accurately," Mark answered. "At least, I would, if I were you. And, what's more," he continued, "I can already tell a fake Septim from a real one. Real Septims do rust occasionally, but not bright red, like these cheap iron ones you gave me." Mark opened his right hand and flipped one of the coins heads-up. The image of Tiber Septim on the coin was bleeding red rust through the thinning gold veneer. "And it's a horrible quality iron, at that, practically raw out of the ground."

Mercer quirked an eyebrow. "Word around the Cistern is that Brynjolf picked you up off the streets," he said. "He told me you broke out of Riften jail, and then broke  _into_ here."

"That's correct," Mark said coldly.

"And you have an incredibly smart mouth," Mercer continued. "It's a good thing you have the quick wit to match, or else you might not have survived your time here so far. Let me give you a piece of advice, Mr. Quest. Piss off the wrong people, and you won't live long enough to apologize." Mercer took two more gold coins out of his purse and threw them at Mark's feet. He turned away, and sat back down at his desk, head bent low over his own work.

Mark didn't move. "Get Bryn in here now!" Mercer barked without looking up. "Put a bow in that boy's hand. Give him something useful to do."

* * *

Brynjolf stood behind Mark, and corrected his posture again. "Keep your elbow high, lad," he said gently. 

"I'm trying," Mark insisted, and he was. His abdomen was sore from all the clenching and unclenching, his chest burned from the controlled breathing, and his arms were on fire.

"Aim, compensate for the curves of the bow," Brynjolf advised.

"I  _know_ ," Mark snarled. He let the arrow loose. It sank into the target with a solid  _thwip!_ just like the others. Mark hadn't hit the target on his first three tries, but each successive attempt had gotten him gradually closer to the bulls-eye. He let out an enormous breath and doubled over, holding his right forearm. The bowstring had left some deep welts on it, and that last one had drawn a little blood. "If I were just strong enough to hold the fucking bow still," Mark muttered.

"It'll come in time," Brynjolf said, patting Mark on the back appreciatively. "The good news is you have an extraordinary talent for it, lad. Your eyesight is wonderful, and your aim is improving at an amazing speed."

"It should be," Mark said, "if the calculations I made earlier were correct. It's only too bad that Mercer burned them."

"Don't complain," Brynjolf joked, grabbing his own bow and taking a few potshots at one of the targets on the high ledge in the training room. "You got two coins out of it, didn't you?"

"I'd rather have my book back," Mark said, crossing his arms. 

Brynjolf smirked. "You're lucky, though. Not many people earn the privilege of pissing Mercer off and getting away with it. He's a good man, really, Mercer is. He has a terribly stressful job. We've had string after string of botched heists, contracts gone dead, hostage swaps, you name it. And Mercer has carried us through it all. We've hardly grossed anything the past few years, but he somehow manages to make sure that we're all safe and taken care of. He just likes his privacy."

"I can understand that," Mark said. He picked up his own bow again. He nocked one of the rusty iron arrows he was using for training, and drew back with all his strength. He fired, and the arrow landed safely in the bulls-eye of the target.

"Excellent!" Brynjolf exclaimed. "I swear, by the Nine, you are a dream come true! Clever, talented, _and_ handsome to boot." Mark smiled in spite of himself. "Once you get your strength back, and after some more basic training, you'll be ready for your first job. We'll do something simple, maybe a cat-burglary on one of those little farms way out in the woods. No guards, we can go in the dead of night, piece of cake."

"I'd like that very much," Mark affirmed. "It's not so much the loot I want, I just want to see if I'm any good at it." 

Brynjolf smiled. "Trust me, lad. You will be." He ruffled Mark's hair. "You might even be better than me some day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is really just meant to be the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There is still a LOT more Mark to come, and next you'll meet my other two Dragonborn, Alanna and Kaja. Please stay with me! Chapters may be far between, but I'm trying my best to work hard and stay focused!
> 
> Out of the three characters I've created, I think I identify with Mark the most. He represents the unusual, secretive, intense side of me. I have experienced depression and anxiety on a clinical scale for years and I occasionally self-harm (although it's relatively minor). In the upcoming chapters, Mark's increasing sense of self and confidence mirror mine over the past few years. I also share his skewed sense of morality and solipsism/narcissism. 
> 
> I also really dearly ask for your comments and constructive criticism. Skyrim and my three characters mean so much to me, and I want to make sure that I get this story just perfect. Usually I just publish and sit back and relax, but this story is different. It's actually very personal and is taking a lot of effort. Incidentally, the last Skyrim story I published got a lot of lackluster and negative reviews. Not impolite, just negative. So please, please, please let me know how this one is going. It means the world to me!
> 
> Thank you!


	2. KAJA I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been more than 2 years since I last updated. But I'm still here. And apparently so are you.

Lady Katherine Blackfield of Cyrodiil sat almost perfectly still in the covered wagon as she fiddled with her wedding ring. She could have taken it off days ago, made an excuse to go into the woods alone, and hurl it into oblivion; she could have surreptitiously dropped it by the side of the road; she even could have pretended to make a scene and demand that the complement of sell-swords travelling with her stop to find it, just to make it seem like she’d lost it by accident. But despite all the opportunities, she couldn’t bring herself to remove it. 

She rubbed the smooth, pale gold between her fingers, and picked idly at the diamond setting as she sat, slouched over in the back of the wagon, wrapped up in wool quilts and furs at the insistence of her handmaid, as her party began the descent from the treacherous roads at the top of the Jerralls and down into Falkreath. 

The few times Katherine had stepped out of the wagon, she hadn’t seen much in the mountains to interest her. The the peaks that separated Cyrodiil and Skyrim were rocky and spare of life, and the blanketed clouds above were grey and stern. The weak, late summer flurries of snow hadn’t hindered them any, but the mostly Imperial complement of hired caravan guards weren’t used to camping in the cold, high altitudes. 

Neither was Katherine, for that matter, but the cold hadn’t gotten to her yet. Her handmade, Barda, insisted that it would the second she let her guard down; that her ladyship should be covered head to toe in woolen winter garments, hood, mittens, and fur-lined boots, and her mistress should always spend the nights right by the fireside when they all set up camp. 

The skies had been too dark to see stars, moons, or sun while they traveled north.

The back of the covered wagon was full of Katherine’s personal effects. A modest wardrobe took up a few trunks - she had cash to buy whatever else she might need once she got to Whiterun. Books, games, a few small musical instruments, jewelry, and some linens had been packed for her. Additionally she traveled with a leather folio full of paperwork from home.

Inside was a receipt for a small house in the city of Whiterun that Katherine’s father had purchased for her use some weeks ago, so she could move right in when she arrived. Apparently it had already been furnished for her, and household staff had already been hired and salaried. Next, a letter of credit for the Whiterun treasury, good for an exchange of five thousand gold Septims for Katherine to add to the small pouch of cash she already carried. Perhaps most importantly was a sort of letter of writ from her father, undersigned by some Thalmor bureaucrat or another, that gave her convoy license to enter Skyrim and proceed directly to Whiterun through any military checkpoints unmolested - that was, any military checkpoints that took orders from the Dominion. 

Along with her wedding ring - growing heavier and heavier by the minute - Katherine carried a small seal of her house. Blackfield was a new house in Cyrodiil; her father was a self-made man and his fortune was entirely new money, so it was only recently that her family had needed a seal at all. Her father, Lord Celsus, had chosen an eagle upon an orange roundel for her family’s crest. He’d explained to her that the eagle was supposed to symbolize his own intelligence and ingenuity, and the orange roundel, his ambition to succeed. 

Katherine kept the seal tied up in a small pouch at the bottom of one of the trunks. Beneath dozens of books she rarely touched, beneath a flute she hated to play but had been forced to learn anyway, beneath a dozen pairs of shoes that she’d never worn, beneath a game-board that never got any use. 

Crumpled next to the seal, she knew, was a note from her husband. She’d only scanned his sorry attempt at an apology, flowery words and half-hearted promises he’d been too cowardly to deliver in person. That it’d only be a little while before he sent for her to come back home, that things would be better, that he’d go out less, that they’d spend more time together. 

But he’d been too busy to tell her goodbye in person on the day of her departure, so he’d said an awkward farewell the day before, and it wasn’t the loneliness that had made Katherine cry, but the sheer hypocrisy of it all. How blind, how deluded he was. He’d never broken any promises to her, because he’d never made any, but she and her husband interpreted the fact different ways, and that was the likely basis of it all. 

She slipped the wedding ring off, just for a moment. The empty space on her finger wouldn’t stay silent, gently reminding her of what she was doing. She stole a glance at Barda, sitting on the other side of the wagon, engrossed in a book. The maid hadn’t noticed. Katherine put the ring back on. And it weighed on her, it was a headache, just wearing it, it made her want to scream and jump from the wagon, to throw herself down the mountain path and pray that her head would be dashed against a sharp stone.

Barda stirred, and pulled aside a flap of canvas to peek out of the wagon. “Looks like we’re below the tree line,” she said.

“Aha,” Katherine replied.

“We’ll be getting close, then.”

“Good.”

“We’ll get out and stop at Fort Neugrad. Then Whiterun will be just a day or so.”

“Right.”

“Last I heard, the legion’s still holding.”

“Mmh.”

“Hope we won’t run into any of those Nord raiding parties they’ve been worried about. What are they, the Stormback rebellion, been causing a nuisance for the last few years.”

Katherine wrinkled her nose.  _ Stormback _ was dangerously close to  _ snowback _ . She’d never been called it to her face, she was almost positive there were people out there who thought it of her and her family. The rebellion hadn’t done anything for their image. “Storm  _ cloaks _ ,” Katherine corrected. “Named after Ulfric Stormcloak, their leader, I think.” 

Barda clicked her tongue. “And where did you hear that.”

“I read one of those flyers they publish every once in a while from the Imperial City. Updates on the war, foreign affairs.”

“I’m surprised, I know you’re not much of a reader,” Barda replied.

“I’m not,” Katherine sighed. “But I at least want to know what’s going on out there.”

The caravan rolled downhill for a few hours at a snail’s pace before reaching Fort Neugrad. Katherine and Barda climbed out of the wagon to get some fresh air, while the trail guide and the captain of the sellsword company checked in with a tall, burly-looking legate at the entrance to the fort’s keep.

The yard was disappointing in Katherine’s eyes. She was used to Imperial pomp and splendor - despite how they chattered back at home, near the Imperial Ring, about how downhill things had gone since the war ended - things in Cyrodiil were kept up to a certain standard. The keep itself looked like it was shrugging, it was so old. Katherine supposed that too many winters and springs had done their damage to the timber and stones holding it together. The courtyard had once been paved, clearly, but the cobbles underfoot had been squashed back into the dirt over the years and weeds had found their way back in. The outer wall was standing tall, still, but was crumbling in spots.

Only a handful of Imperial soldiers were home. They and their horses and dogs milled about the yard, sharpening weapons, sparring, practising archery, cooking, smoking. The breeze smelled like bonfire and horse shit. 

The legate up by the keep strode across the yard to greet Katherine. “Good to see you made it safely, Lady Blackfield,” she said. “My name is Legate Rikke, I’m the ranking officer here at the moment.”

Katherine bowed her head and curtseyed compulsively, like an invisible hand had pushed her down and dragged her back up. “Thank you for receiving us,” she said mechanically. “We’re just stopping on our way to Whiterun hold.”

“I see,” Rikke said. “Your guide, here, explained it all, and your travel papers are well in order. Not every day you see a passport like yours, signed by the Thalmor. Legally speaking I couldn’t keep you here even if I wanted to.”

Katherine wouldn’t have said it aloud, but she took quiet satisfaction at that as Rikke gave her a once-over. Rikke was amazonian in stature. She was pushing six feet tall, and had broad shoulders, thick limbs, and a gaze that fit somewhere between imperious and impertinent; but her stance and voice were steadfast and calming, somehow. Her hair was golden, her pale cheeks, ears, and nose stained with pink from the cold air. 

Katherine wondered if her face looked like that, now, too, as the breeze teased her own white-blond hair out of its knot. Katherine was unusually tall for a girl, too, and had long arms and legs and narrow hips. But even though her head was level with Rikke’s, she didn’t meet the legate’s eyes.

“Tell us, legate, are the roads safe from here?” Barda asked. “We don’t want to run into the rebellion. They’d take us for everything we had.”

“It’s almost funny that you ask about that,” she responded. “Not an hour ago, a courier handed me a letter from General Tullius. Said he’d just won a pivotal battle at Darkwater Crossing. Not that it was much of a battle, that is - we gave the poor fucks some bad intel, and they walked right into a trap we set for them. And this is where it gets good. I almost didn’t believe it myself. But apparently, Ulfric was with them. And they took him. Alive.”

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Their leader?” Katherine asked, incredulous. Only one day in the North, and she’d been warned so many times about crossing the rebels, and here she was, so close to the action she could almost taste it. She was electrified, a sweet sensation blossoming along her tongue. This is what she knew would never happen, but hoped for with all her heart.

“The same,” Rikke replied. “You know your politics, Lady Blackfield.”

“I just browse the news back at home,” Katherine confessed. “But I was taught history - the rebellion started about twenty five years ago, after the Markarth Incident. Ulfric had just --”

“I was there, my Lady,” Rikke interrupted. “I was in the unit that retook the city. Markarth had been conquered three times by three separate armies in two years, I was here in the North through it all.” Katherine bit her lip. “I’m willing to bet that the rebellion is older than you are.” 

Rikke was right, Katherine hadn’t been born until after Markarth was back under Imperial control. She’d learned that in her history lessons, carefully taught by Thalmor culture advisors. In their eyes, the Markarth incident had been a lesson that nothing supersedes the rule of the Dominion, and that authority is divined by the ruling class and meted out carefully to the people. That power could only be legitimate if it was given, never taken. Katherine had been forced to write an essay about it.

A million things whirled through Katherine’s head - what about the Alessian slave rebellion that had started with the people? What about the ancient Velothi exodus? What about Tiber Septim himself, who had stepped forth out of the woods of Falkreath to conquer the world? 

Katherine admitted to herself, and no one else, that she had a soft spot for rebels - for the brave men and women throughout history who had stood up to the tides they were tossed upon and had changed their fate. She couldn’t help but let her imagination run wild with thoughts of handsome, burly Nords carrying axes and fighting for king and country, of all the noble declarations made, all the toasts and all the mead drunk, all the people huddled around cozy campfires on the campaign trail beneath glittering stars and dazzling auroras.

And Ulfric was supposed to be at the heart of it all. Katherine had been taught he was a terrorist. He’d created a self-proclaimed sovereign state of sorts in Markarth all those years ago, and thought that he was above the law. That his reign was more important than that of the emperor, the Elder Council, or of the Dominion. That he didn’t have to abide by the statutes prescribed in the White-Gold Concordat that had ended the Great War. He thought that somehow he had license to ignore the rules he didn’t like and cry “Injustice!” as loudly as he could and whenever he got the chance - and he was dangerously close to getting all of Skyrim involved in a bloody conflict over his hurt pride.

But again, something about Ulfric’s story inspired Katherine. The man was a veteran of the Great War, whose country had betrayed him by surrendering to the Dominion. They’d taken the blood he and his countrymen had shed and pissed on it by allowing the Thalmor to tell them how to live. They had virtually no say in a system of power that put them so close to the bottom, yet demanded the utmost from its subjects. The man had had his father, his gods, and his land taken away from him despite everything he tried, and the empire could neither protect Ulfric from persecution nor repay him for what he had already suffered. 

Katherine knew exactly how it was. She had spent a great deal of her life coddled by the people around her, but given no real freedom - she knew how it was to be afforded only the illusion of freedom. She felt her guts twist into a knot as Rikke told her about captured rebels being force-marched to a little town called Helgen not too far from Fort Neugrad. Katherine couldn’t help but clench her jaw and look away. She’d been carried away against her will, too.

Rikke continued. “I’m headed that way myself, you’ll have to go through Helgen if you want to get to Whiterun from here. I’ll accompany you.” Katherine, Barda, the captain of the caravan guard, and the trail guide all rejoined their party outside the gates of the fort. Barda climbed back into the covered wagon, but Katherine decided to go on foot for a change. It wasn’t quite as cold anymore, so she shrugged off her wool cape, and rolled up the sleeves of her dress to let her bare arms see the sun. The steel-gray clouds overhead were beginning to part, and though the sun in the north was weak, it was better than nothing.

Rikke picked a sturdy-looking horse out of the stables, saddled up quickly, and trotted out onto the rough cobblestone path. She led the party through a small pass, and downhill a short ways to Helgen. It was more of a hamlet, really, just a ramshackle assortment of buildings clustered around an old tower keep. Again, Katherine wasn’t impressed. She might have spent time worrying about it, if her thoughts hadn’t been interrupted by Rikke again.

A tall, thin man, dressed in tattered brown rags sprinted past Rikke’s horse, flying as fast as he could although it looked like his hands were bound. “Archers!” Rikke shouted. Almost immediately, a volley of arrows flew out of nowhere and landed in the prisoner’s back. He fell.

“Stop it!” Katherine shouted, charging forward to catch up to Rikke’s horse. “You can’t just shoot people down like that, what’s this man done?”

“He tried to escape for one,” Rikke answered.

“He’d be  _ right _ to try and escape if he didn’t do anything wrong in the first place,” Katherine said. Rikke tried to chivvy her horse onward through the town gates, but Katherine stepped in front of her and grabbed the reins. “You can’t be judge, jury, and executioner to these people!”

“Stand back,” Rikke warned. “This is no time to make a scene. Look, you’re probably used to getting your way back at home. But things are different up here.” She tugged at the reins, and the horse whinnied in frustration. One of the Imperial bowmen who had shot down the escapee came forward and placed a hand on Katherine’s shoulder. 

“Please stand back, miss,” he said. Katherine dropped the reins to shove him away, and Rikke urged the horse forward into the town square where she dismounted. 

Barda hopped down from the wagon. “What’s got into you?” she said, linking her arm in Katherine’s. Once again, Katherine pulled away. “You wouldn’t dare behave like this at home. Butting in, holding up an Imperial legate at a time like this. You know better.”

“You’re right, I do,” Katherine spat, following Rikke into Helgen. 

In the town square, before the tower keep, a small group of Imperial footsoldiers stood at attention. Among them were dirty, worn-looking men and women, wearing assorted scraps of leather and chainmail armor, all with blue sashes draped around them. One of the soldiers in blue already had his head on the execution block. The headsman loomed over the soldier, holding an enormous, sharp, cruel-looking ax, testing his grip in preparation for the swing. 

Katherine brushed past the Imperial guard and planted herself in the middle of it all. “Stop, stop! What do you all think you’re doing?” she said loudly. “These men were captured just yesterday, weren’t they? How could that possibly be enough time to try and sentence them all fairly?” 

“And you are?” An older man with greying hair, wearing an ornate Imperial breastplate and red cloak, addressed Katherine. 

“Katherine Blackfield,” she replied. “But it doesn’t matter who I am, this can’t be justified, tell your men to stand down, sir.”

Rikke caught up to Katherine. “Blackfield, you don’t belong here!” she said. Katherine noticed that she’d gone from “Lady Katherine” to “Blackfield,” now. “I’m sorry, General Tullius, I didn’t realize we’d be walking in on all of this. You should go back, wait in the wagon. You don’t want to see this.”

“See what, miscarriage of justice?” Katherine snapped. “General, I understand that judicial power is limited out here, but this is ridiculous. This would never be allowed in Cyrodiil, so how can you justify doing it here? Executing men and women before they’ve been granted their right to a trial and a jury. And without any dignity. Look at them, they’re dead on their feet.”

A figure dressed in a long, black robe interrupted. “You may be right, Lady Blackfield,” the woman said, in a voice like liquid mercury, smooth and fluid, but cold. Katherine recognized the garb of a Thalmor justiciar instantly. All her teachers and tutors, all her life, all the officials in the Imperial City were members of the Thalmor party nowadays. She’d have known the uniform anywhere. “Citizens of the Empire and Dominion  _ are _ afforded a certain level of dignity during these types of proceedings, but as I’m sure any member of this sorry excuse for a rebellion will tell you, Skyrim doesn’t belong to the Empire anymore. And if they’re no longer citizens, then why should we treat them as such?”

Katherine wavered under the weight of years of being trained not to speak directly to Thalmor officials. Just seeing a justiciar - and an Altmer nonetheless - in front of her prompted a knee-jerk reaction that she had to fight just to speak. “Because they’re still people,” she managed to get out.

“And this is war,” the justiciar replied. “The rules of engagement are different.”

“Don’t make Lady Elenwen explain herself to you,” Tullius said in an urgent whisper. “Maybe you  _ should _ go.”

Barda took Katherine’s arm again, and started to lead her away. The man on the block spoke up. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” While Katherine’s back was turned, she heard a sickening  _ thud _ behind her, and shrieks of anguish from the prisoner’s fellow soldiers. “Murderer!” “Bastard!”

Tears pricked the corners of Katherine’s eyes as she listened. “Don’t look, my lady,” Barda said softly, placing a protective arm around her charge’s shoulders. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“It will. Won’t it.” The war, the rebellion, and Ulfric, too. She’d almost forgotten he was supposed to be among them. Katherine looked around again, and she laid eyes on who she assumed was Ulfric. He was bound and gagged, and was standing next to Tullius, watching his men die right in front of him. 

He wasn’t wearing armor, but his outfit was a stark contrast to Tullius’. The Imperial commander had bare legs and arms, and Ulfric was dressed head to toe in soft, warm furs and boiled wool and leather. A grey mantle hung from his shoulders, dirty and matted with dried blood. His hair was wild and greyish brown, like wheat. There were two small braids at his temples, inlaid with tiny silver beads. His brows were lowered over stormy eyes, light like Katherine’s. Ulfric’s face was stone. Unreadable. Even now. 

_ What are you thinking? _ Katherine wondered.  _ What goes through a man’s head at a time like this _ ? An almost imperceptible rumble filled the air. It sounded like thunder from miles and miles and miles away echoing off the mountains.  _ Come on, fight back _ .  _ It can’t end like this _ . She waited for a sign. Anything. Ulfric had to have an escape plan, he couldn't have made it this far without one.

To her horror, Tullius took Ulfric by the arm and led him to the block next. The headsman stood by, idly wiping the blood off the blade of his ax. Tullius put a hand on Ulfric’s shoulder. The jarl knelt without hesitation, without a struggle.

It felt like something burst inside Katherine’s heart, she felt a drumbeat pounding in her head. If Ulfric wasn’t going to fight, she would have to do it for him. The idea of the rebellion coming to an end before her eyes was too much to bear all of a sudden. She wriggled free of Barda’s grip and dashed towards Tullius and Ulfric, crying out, “Wait, you can’t do this!”

“Katherine!” Barda scolded, but too little too late. 

“Enough is enough!” Katherine shouted, planting herself between the headsman and Ulfric. She grew weak in the knees under Tullius’ and Elenwen’s accusatory glares, and she was suddenly transported. She was a child being scolded by her grammar school teacher again. Back in the corner for speaking out of turn, cradling fingers that had just been beaten red with a hickory switch. Embarrassed that she had been punished where all her classmates could see. Ashamed that she had had the nerve to disobey her betters. She could hardly get the words together; she was preoccupied with fighting the urge to run and hide. 

But this was more important than all those years put together, and if she didn’t speak up now, then they had won. Katherine had a duty to her countrymen, and to herself. She had to prove that they hadn’t beaten the free will out of her. Not now when it finally mattered. “This man has shed his blood to defend the very emperor under whose authority you now sentence him to death! How is this justice?” 

Elenwen started. “Stand aside, girl,” she said warningly.

“I won’t!” Katherine spat, her face burning with anger and shame, her fists clenched at her sides. “You call  _ him _ a traitor, but he’s the only one here who’s consistently fought for freedom! You, all of you!” she said, addressing Tullius directly. “You’re the real traitor. You once fought under the same banner as him, and now, it’s come to this? You punish  _ him _ for refusing to bow down to the likes of  _ her _ !” Nobody needed clarification; Elenwen looked furious. “He’s the only truly loyal one here, and you’re going to kill him for it!”

The headsman reached around and grabbed Katherine’s shoulder. “Outta the way,” he said lowly. 

Katherine retaliated by turning on the spot and punching him hard in the face. It didn’t do much damage, but it gave her enough time to break free and grab the executioner’s ax with both hands, and try to wrestle it away from the headsman. 

Barda screamed as a dozen other hands reached out to pull Katherine away, but she held onto the ax like her life depended on it. The incredible focus and strength afforded by rage filled her body, and she kicked and squirmed even as someone came up behind her and lifted her bodily into the air. 

Ulfric was knocked on his back in the commotion, and took advantage of the confusion to pull the gag off. “ _ FUS-RO! _ ” he shouted, and everyone in the tussle was knocked back and off their feet, and Katherine rolled free, away to the side.

And in that same instant, the most impossible thing happened.

* * *

 

In Katherine’s eyes, day turned to night before she could blink. The sky turned dark as if the sun had suddenly disappeared altogether, but there were no stars. An icy chill filled her blood, and a rush of freezing air ran down her body. The earth beneath her shook violently, as if it was going to break. 

She saw a long, black, scaly tail swing down the side of the tower keep. Just ten feet away from her. When she got her bearings back, with everyone’s shrieking ringing in her ears, she looked skyward and saw what could really only be one thing.

A dragon. Black as Oblivion itself, wings and jaws open wide, perched on top of the tower, bearing down upon the people of Helgen.

_ A dragon. _

Katherine did not run. 

She only gazed upwards, entranced. The enormous but delicate spiraling horns. The talons, as big as her arm. The scales, each blacker than ebony, textured and pointed and swirled in variegated perfection, moving like water over the creature’s hide as it roared into space.

_ A Dragon. _

“ _ DOVAH NIKRIIN _ ,  _ HI NIS HORVUTAH ZU’U _ ,” Ulfric yelled. Katherine whirled around to watch him address the dragon directly. His hands were still bound, but he was standing his ground. Like an echo in her mind, Ulfric’s words reverberated back in her head.  _ Cowardly dragon thou art, thou canst not catch me! _

“What are you doing?” she shouted. “Don’t taunt it, run!” 

Ulfric spared her a glance that only lasted a second - his focus snapped right back to the dragon. But in that second Katherine saw bewilderment, and was it awe? Admiration? Pride?

For neither the first nor last time that day, a rough pair of hands took Katherine’s arm. “Get up, get up!” their owner said, and they dragged Katherine to her feet. “Come on!” It was one of the soldiers in blue, a man about Katherine’s height, with blond hair tied up in braids and a scruffy beard. He took her by the hand and pulled her away from the tower. “This way, into the fort!”

The town had gone to pieces. The houses and wagons were on fire, horses bolted, a handful of the soldiers had drawn their bows and were taking aim at the dragon, and the rest were making a break for it. The fight wasn’t divided by faction, Katherine noticed. Of those who had decided to stay and fight the dragon, about half were Imperial and half were rebels. 

Ulfric goaded the dragon again before taking Katherine’s advice, and turning tail to run for cover, too. The dragon took flight, leaping into the sky and catching itself on its wings, and glided in circles above the town like a vulture. 

The dragon’s voice was low, so low that it was almost impossible to make out what it was saying. “ _ ZU’U LOS FIN SUNVAAR NOL HIN HAHVULON _ ;  _ YOL, _ ” it said. A tiny voice in the back of Katherine’s mind whispered, “ _ I am the monster from thy nightmares; fire! _ ” An enormous jet of transparent flame erupted from the dragon’s mouth and scoured the courtyard black.

Katherine, Ulfric, and the rebel soldier made it safely into the keep, where they had a moment to stop and catch their breath. 

The soldier’s voice shook. “Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” Ulfric replied, panting. Katherine’s heart was hammering in her chest like it never had before, and she was shaking all over. “You alright, Ralof?” The soldier nodded. “Blackfield?”

Katherine nodded, clinging to the wall. “That’s a. Wow. That’s a dragon.”

“You don’t say,” Ulfric said, pacing towards her. He stood less than a foot away from her, close enough for her to see the individual beads of sweat on his forehead, the lines on his face, the hair matted to his temples, the curve of his lips. He locked eyes with her. Ulfric’s voice was deep and noble and soft, his presence both tranquil and imposing. “Untie me.” Katherine wasn’t sure if it was a request or an order.

She took his hands in hers, and undid the ropes binding his wrists. “Wish I could have done something sooner,” she said.

“Not that it’s any of my business, but your maidservant was right in asking what’s gotten into you. Not every day you see a woman like yourself come along, with such fire in her veins,” Ulfric said, taking a moment to check outside.

“Not that it  _ is _ any of your business, but I just - it’s been too long since I’ve done something useful,” Katherine replied. “And I meant what I said back there. Your men didn’t deserve to die on the block like that.”

Ralof interrupted. “A fine sentiment. Now undress.”

Katherine spun around, alarmed for just a moment. All the horrible rumors she had heard about the Stormcloaks were right, they were going to carry her off and take advantage of her just like she’d been warned. But she realized Ralof had begun to take the armor off a dead rebel soldier. “She won’t need it in Sovngarde,” he said. Katherine wasn’t going to be paraded around nude, she was meant to wear the rebel’s armor. They weren’t going to hurt her. They were trying to protect her.

“Shor will provide for her,” Ulfric echoed. He beckoned a few more Stormcloak soldiers to take cover in the keep before shutting the door and bolting it. “How are our numbers out there?” he asked.

One of the Stormcloaks replied, “We’ve lost a dozen more, your highness. There was only so much we could do.”

“What about Tullius? Rikke?” Ulfric inquired.

“Both escaped, my lord.”

A beat of silence. “The Thalmor bitch.”

“I’m not sure, my lord.”

Ulfric scoffed. “Here’s to hoping she’s been dragged back to Oblivion where she belongs.”

Katherine slipped out of her wool dress and stood there in a pair of breeches and an undershirt. Ralof handed her a leather tunic, a pair of greaves with iron plates riveted on them, and a fur-lined helmet. Katherine kicked off the high-heeled shoes she’d been wearing. The dead rebel’s boots were too small for her, so she went without. It was good to feel the cold flagstone beneath her feet. 

To finish it off, Ulfric took the fallen rebel’s sash and draped it around Katherine’s shoulders. This was more than just circumstance, she wasn’t just tagging along. Ulfric was actually  _ inviting _ her to join. She glowed, she was lighter than air. She couldn’t have been prouder if he had put a diamond crown on her head.

Ulfric pressed a hand-ax and wooden shield into Katherine’s hands.

“I’m not sure about this,” she said. “I really don’t know how to use these.”

Ulfric looked into her eyes. His were steel-grey, the color of cloudy skies and snowstorms in the night. “You do. Trust me. This is no time for doubt, Katherine.”

“Kaja,” she blurted.

“Kaja?”

“I mean, this is going to sound stupid. Call me Kaja, please. I don’t like Katherine.”

“Very well,” Ulfric said. “A good Nord name. Kaja. And don’t apologize for demanding the respect you deserve. It’s not stupid for people see you for who you truly are.”

Ralof hefted a longsword up off the floor. “Let’s get out of here before things get any worse.”

Ulfric, Kaja, Ralof, and the other rebels jogged down the main corridor of the keep, when an awful rumble came from above. The ceiling caved in, crushing the walls, the wood beams, the iron fixtures in the wall.

“ _ Damn  _ that dragon,” Ulfric cursed. “Is there a way around?”

“This way,” Ralof said, leading the party back and down into the dungeon. “I used to play hide-and-seek here with my friends when I came to visit, when I was a boy,” he said. “I don’t know the whole layout of the place, but the dungeons connect to a cave, and the cave lets out near Embershard Mine. Or at least it did twenty years ago.”

Kaja grabbed Ulfric’s sleeve to get his attention. “The dragon, you were talking to it?”

If Ulfric was surprised, he didn’t let on. “Yes, trying to get it away from the tower. I wanted to distract it so my men could escape.” Kaja noticed that Ulfric didn’t shake her off. He let her hold onto him.

“You called it a coward. The first thing that occurred to you was to insult it?”

Ulfric’s pace slowed a little. “You. You understood that.”

“I mean, I couldn’t repeat it, exactly,” Kaja said, “but I understood what you meant. Not the words, but the meaning. You said,  _ Cowardly dragon, you can’t catch me _ .”

“That’s right, and you told me to run. How do you --?”

Kaja cut him off, “And then what it said, did you hear? When it flew over us?”

“Yes I did.”

“It said,  _ I am the monster from your nightmares, fire! _ and then it breathed fire over everything.” 

“How -- Where did you learn Dovahzul?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Kaja replied, as the party came to a halt. They’d reached the dungeon door, and one of the Stormcloaks peered around it to see if the coast was clear. Kaja continued in a whisper. “I told you, I didn’t know the  _ words _ you said, I just know what they meant. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Before Ulfric could ask any further questions, the rest of the party let out a wild yell and rushed into the dungeon. When Kaja and Ulfric got through the door, the Imperials inside were already dead by Stormcloak hands.

“The way is clear, my lord,” Ralof said. “But there are sure to be more faithless Imperial swine hiding up ahead.”

“Very well,” Ulfric said, only paying half-attention. “Go on. We’ll discuss this later,” he said to Kaja. “For now, be on your guard.”

“I told you, I don’t know how to fight!” she said. 

Ulfric grabbed her wrist, but Kaja wrenched it out of his grip. “See what I mean?” he said. “You might not have used an ax or shield before, but you know how to stand up for yourself. You proved that already, up there. You were willing to wrestle a man much bigger and stronger than you, a man who was armed when you weren’t, and you were holding your own until the goddamn legion interfered. The fight doesn’t come from the weapon. The fight is in  _ you _ ,” he said. “You have Nord in your blood, don’t you?”

“I’m full-blooded Nord,” Kaja replied. “I was raised down south, but both my parents were from Falkreath hold.”

“It shows,” Ulfric said, looking deeply into her eyes again. “You are a true daughter of Skyrim, a daugher of Shor. We do not stand for injustice, we do not take orders. And you won’t have to do what they say anymore.”

“How could you tell?” Kaja asked, as she and Ulfric followed Ralof and the others into the next room. “How I was back there, I mean, I can’t remember the last time I was so angry. I’m not usually like that.”

“You were speaking your mind, and they were telling you to be quiet,” Ulfric said. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out. You mustn’t apologize for your behavior or make excuses for having a mind of your own, Kaja.”

Kaja gave Ulfric a quizzical look. “You sure it’s not just because you liked what I was saying?”

“I’ll admit, that was a part of it,” Ulfric said. “But you spoke of injustice, of fair treatment under the law. What they mean is equal treatment for those who blindly follow custom, for those who question nothing, for those who obey. Not for the likes of you and me.” Kaja heard shouting and the sound of splintering wood and clashing metal from the next room, and again, it was all over before she and Ulfric entered. Ralof’s nose had been smashed and was bleeding, but other than that, the rebels seemed unharmed.

“We don’t treat women that way here in Skyrim,” Ulfric continued, following what remained of his men down the next corridor. “Your sex is equal to ours. Women own property, they can fight, drink, swear, hold office, whatever they want. And there are penalties for those who don’t listen when a woman speaks. That’s a very Cyrodiilic idea, the notion that women are subordinate to the men around them. That they ought to be silent and withdrawn. Not here.”

Time would either prove Ulfric right or wrong. The man spoke in absolutes, so Kaja vowed to take his advice with a grain of salt. Either way, she was glad to be in the company of the Stormcloak rebellion at last. She had been taken right to the heart of it, right to the bosom of the founder of the rebellion himself. It was her first day, and she’d already done the impossible.

The next chamber was larger than the last ones, and even though the fight had already started by the time she and Ulfric got there, there were still plenty of Imperials left. Ulfric grabbed a short-sword from a dead Imperial off the floor and charged at an Imperial archer, plunging the sword into his belly before he had time to react. 

Kaja hung back - not that she was unwilling to fight - she would if she had to - but better to let the experienced fighters handle things. That was her strategy, until an Imperial soldier rushed at her from out of a shadow. 

She instinctively raised her shield and hid behind it. The soldier smashed into it with an overhand swing from his sword, and Kaja felt the wood splinter, the vibrations going all along her arm and shoulder. 

“Now shove him back and strike!” Ralof shouted, coaching her from across the room, all while he was in the thick of a fight with another Imperial. Kaja put all her weight behind the shield and pushed as hard as she could. The Imperial soldier stumbled a little, and he dropped his guard. Kaja bellowed and brought her hand-ax high over her head, and then plunged it with all her strength into the Imperial’s neck. 

He dropped to the floor, dead in an instant. Kaja quickly realized that the ax was good and stuck, so she left it in the soldier’s neck, picked up his sword, and copied Ulfric. She charged an Imperial archer and buried the blade in his gut before he had the time to nock an arrow. 

A frost spell bit at her from behind, stinging her skin and sapping at her strength. “Shield! Shield!” Ulfric yelled, and Kaja raised the shield up to deflect the frost. “Charge her!” Kaja barreled forward into the spellcaster, knocking her down. Sword still in hand, she wound up, and plunged it into the Imperial mage’s chest. 

“See what I told you?” Ulfric said, joining her after the fight had ended. “You already know how to use these. Swords and axes. You could use a little training, though.”

“You were watching me fight from all the way over there?” she panted. “You were in a fight of your own, and you were guiding me.”

“Experience, that’s all,” he said, wiping the blood off his own sword on the leg of his pants. “These little squabbles are over before they begin, most of the time. How do you feel?” Ulfric asked.

Kaja looked about at the dead Imperials on the floor, small pools of blood already forming around their wounds. She bit her lip. “They’re dead. All of them.”

“That’s what tends to happen when you stab someone,” Ralof chimed in.

Kaja considered. “I’m not...I feel alright,” she said. “I always thought people cried and threw up after their first kill...and I’m not... I feel fine,” she said. “I do, I feel strong, I feel steady.” It was true. All the shaking and weakness in her from earlier had vanished. Her head was clearer than it had been in months, maybe years. She stood tall at her full height, she felt powerful and balanced like a tall tree hundreds of years old; and she felt quick and fierce as a wolf, agile and deadly, a bright current of energy stirring through her.  

“Is that wrong? To not feel guilty? I mean, they were supposed to protect me. And here we are killing them. This seems so backwards. Not wrong, just...backwards.”

“They knew what they signed up for,” Ulfric said. “If you want to blame anyone for their deaths, blame Titus Mede. Blame the Dominion. They should never have given us reason to fight them in the first place.”

“Now wait, Titus Mede did what he had to to keep the Empire alive,” Kaja said. “This isn’t his fault.”

“No, but he was the one who bowed down to the Thalmor, who let them dictate to us how we should live, who we should worship!” Ulfric shouted. “I’ve met the Emperor. He’s a kind man, a good man, but he made a foolish mistake. He’s betrayed us all.”

Ulfric turned away and joined the rest of the unit in pushing on. Kaja followed, trying to mull it all over. They ran into another cell of Imperial soldiers, and Kaja killed again. 

Ralof flashed her a short smile. “You’re stronger than you look, rich girl,” he said. 

“You know, a few years ago, when my parents went out looking for someone to marry me, they were afraid that I would be taller than everyone who came to court me?” Kaja said. “It used to drive my seamstress mad. And the cobbler, too. Too tall and huge feet.”

Ralof snorted. “The divines built you like the warrior you are, Blackfield. That’s why this comes naturally to you, that’s why you have the fortitude to kill when it’s called for. You were made for this.”

“ _ Kaja _ , please,” she repeated.

“Kaja. My new little sister,” Ralof said. “I like the sound of that. Not ashamed of your Nord warrior blood any longer, eh?”

“I never was,” Kaja said. “Everyone else was always ashamed enough for me.”

They were almost out of the caves. There was one more struggle with a small cell of Imperial soldiers, and one of the Stormcloaks was killed. “Talos protect you,” Ulfric mumbled; “Shor keep you,” Ralof murmured. And then they moved on.

* * *

 

They all stopped to rest at a stone monument out in the wilderness, near the banks of the White River. Kaja shucked off her helmet and arm grieves, but kept the leather tunic and sash on. Those who had survived weren’t badly hurt. There were bumps and bruises to go around, and one of the rebels had been shot in the shoulder. But it wasn’t deep. The arrow was broken and the arrowhead removed promptly, right there in the woods. Kaja pulled the chignon out of her hair and shook it out.

There was one last roar, like the first, high up in the clouds, like a rumble of distant thunder. Kaja looked up and caught a glimpse of the dragon soar away on the wind, and disappear into the sky. 

The sun came out.

It was late summer in Skyrim. The sun was warm but the breeze was cool, moss built to survive the chill brushed Kaja’s bare feet as she walked beside Ulfric down the trail to Riverwood. The air no longer smelled of shit and man-made messes. It was crisp, clear, and sweet to breathe. 

Kaja had to make up for the time she’d lost in the covered wagon. “I can’t believe this,” she said, over and over again. “I just can’t believe this!” Ulfric’s expression softened as he watched her dash along the worn cobbles, smelling every flower, touching every leaf on every tree, turning around in circles trying to look at everything at once. “This is where you live? I can’t believe this!”

“I remember when I used to have that much energy,” Ralof sighed. “But I wouldn’t have expected this. She’s lost her old life, been attacked by a dragon, and we all but carried her off - and she’s dancing.”

Ulfric allowed himself to smile. “Times would be darker than they already are, but for people like her,” he said. “Could you have imagined it, less than an hour ago she was Lady Katherine Blackfield of Cyrodiil. Now she’s just Kaja. Blessedly simple.”

“Who are the Blackfields?” Ralof asked.

“New money,” Ulfric replied. “She’s their oldest, they don’t have any sons.”

Ralof flashed a worried glance at her. “Should we take her back to them?” he wondered aloud. “Should we find her family and tell them she’s alive?”

“It’s not our place,” Ulfric said. “She’s more than capable of finding her way home, if she wanted. But has she given you the impression that she wants to go back? For Shor’s sake, she changed her  _ name _ the instant she had the chance.”

The two watched Kaja scramble over boulders, pick flowers, and slide down the banks of the river to play in the water. Her laughter rang out, echoing off the mountains, as she scampered along like an overgrown child. 

“Are you sure?” Ralof pressed. “Look at her. She may have potential, but she’s so green.”

“Perhaps she is,” Ulfric admitted. “But she  _ is _ a woman of conviction. I have confidence that you could leave her anywhere in Skyrim, and she’d be able to get where she wanted to be.”

“Ulfric, look, a bear!” Kaja shouted, pointing to a huge brown bear lumbering along the opposite bank.

“Yes, I see it,” he said, trying to hold back a grin. “Don’t get too close now.”

Kaja clamored back up to the road, looking more like a dog that had rolled in a mud puddle than a girl. “I can’t explain a damn thing that’s happened today,” she said, beaming and breathless. “But I don’t care. I feel like - I feel like I’ve come home after a long trip,  _ finally _ , more than any other time in my life! Not even the house I grew up in felt so familiar, so real. I want to see everything, show me everything! To Oblivion with whatever else is going on, I’m not leaving,” she declared.

In one swift movement, she tore the wedding ring from her finger and hurled it into the river. 

“What was that?” Ulfric asked.

“A divorce!” Kaja shouted.

The party reached Riverwood around sunset. Kaja had calmed down a little, and had gained control of herself for the time being. Her eyes were still bright with wonder, and she glowed with pride and contentment as they passed into Riverwood.

Ralof’s sister, Gerdur; his brother-in-law, Hod; and his nephew, Frodnar; ran the mill in town. He knocked on the door of their cabin and Hod let them all in. He and Ralof embraced, and Hod offered them all food and drink. From Hod’s conversation, it sounded like Ralof hadn’t been home in months. 

The cabin was small, rustic, and cozy. Ulfric was offered a chair by the fire, roaring in the grate even though it was still warm outside. He shrugged off the fur robe he’d been wearing, and rolled up the sleeves of the tunic he wore underneath. The other Stormcloak soldiers sat at the scrubbed-wooden kitchen table, eating ravenously the stew and bread that Hod had served them.

“They haven’t eaten at all in two days,” Ulfric told Hod. “I’m not surprised they’re devouring their food, like animals. You’ll have to forgive them. I’ll send some reimbursement to you from Windhelm when I get back.” 

Kaja and Ulfric ate by the fire, Ulfric in his comfortable cushioned seat and Kaja cross-legged on the floor. The stew was hot out of the cauldron, thick with roux and sweet juicy meats and vegetables. It was simple yet savory, and filled Kaja up faster than she expected. She ate with reckless abandon, slurping and wiping her chin on her sleeve and doing all the things her mother had taught her not to.

“But this, I can’t explain,” Ulfric continued, indicating Kaja. “You’d think she was raised by bears. You’d never guess where she’s from.”

“Goo’,” Kaja mumbled through a mouthful of beef and carrots. “Vey won’ fin’ ‘e,” she slurred.

Gerdur and her son, Frodnar, joined the party within a matter of minutes. Ralof hugged his big sister tightly, and swung her in a circle as he lifted her feet off the floor. He embraced his nephew, too. The boy was wide-eyed at seeing  _ the _ Ulfric Stormcloak in his house.

Ralof took Gerdur off to the side so they could catch up. “I didn’t come right away because I didn’t want the neighbors to panic,” Gerdur said. “Especially Alvor, I didn’t want him to get the impression that something had gone wrong, since Hadvar hasn’t come home yet.”

“Something _ has _ gone wrong,” Ralof said. “You must have heard the dragon.”

If Gerdur was surprised, it didn’t show. “So it  _ was _ a dragon, then. Truly, a dragon in Skyrim?” Ulfric wasn’t weighing in just yet, but Kaja could tell he was listening intently to Ralof and Gerdur talk. “Someone should warn Jarl Balgruuf.”

“I’d be shocked if he didn’t know already,” Ralof said. “It flew right over Bleak Falls. It should have been easy to spot out on the plains, especially from Dragonsreach.”

“Someone should say something either way,” Gerdur insisted. “You should go in the morning to warn him.”

Ralof frowned. “After I just got back? It’s been months, I’m tired, can’t I just rest for a few days? What if I run into the legion on the way?”

“Don’t you have clothes other than your uniform?” Gerdur said. “Don’t go as a soldier, just go as a concerned citizen. Then you can come straight home and rest. You can get it done in a day, easily.”

Ralof flopped down on the floor next to Kaja and wriggled out of his armor. “Always something to do with that woman,” he huffed. “It never ends. Her list of chores is a mile long.”

Kaja lent a hand and helped Ralof yank the chain corselet off over his head. “I don’t know, doesn’t a dragon attack seem important? I mean, what if it happens again?” Kaja turned to Ulfric. “Will it?”

“I can’t say,” Ulfric replied. “Dragons are just like people, they’re neither totally good nor totally evil. That being said, my knowledge only stretches so far, mostly through study of folklore and history. There hasn’t been a live dragon in Tamriel since the second era. This is new for me as well.”

“Then how do you know so much about Dovah- that language? Dragons might have been dead for hundreds of years, but you  _ talked _ to one. You probably have a better handle on this than anyone,” Kaja said.

Ulfric leaned back into his chair and stared into the fire. “I spent some years at the monastery of High Hrothgar, up on top of the Throat of the World,” he said. “The monks there, called the Greybeards, devote their lives to studying Dovahzul, and using its power as a means of meditation and spiritual enlightenment. Since the order is so ancient, they’re also a wellspring of knowledge. History, literature, music, and legends that could never ever come true --” he trailed off.

“Until today,” Ralof added.

“Until today,” Ulfric confirmed. “Kaja, I can’t say for sure why there’s a dragon in our kingdom. I can’t say for sure what it’ll do next. But what I do know,” he said, turning to look into Kaja’s eyes again, “is that it very much has something to do with  _ you _ .”

Kaja snorted. “ _ Me? _ ” she said. “ _ You’re _ the magical dragon guy. If I had to take a guess, I’d say that the dragon showed up because of  _ you _ . I mean, your head was almost taken off. The dragon showed up just in time to stop the execution. What are the odds of that happening? And you can speak dragon language, and it didn’t kill you even though you called it a coward.”

Ulfric offered her a small smile. “My head is still on my shoulders because of  _ you _ , little sister,” he said. “Yes, the beast came at an...auspicious time to say the least. I’m sure the events of today will shape Skyrim for centuries to come. But it would have been a minute too late to save the likes of me.”

Kaja bit the inside of her cheek. “And how do you account for me understanding the dragon language?” she asked. “Are there other people out there who can?”

Ulfric chuckled. “Throughout history, there have only been a handful of people who can even  _ speak _ it, let alone understand it. And I assure you, none of them had any sort of inborn ability like you. Even those of us who have a certain proclivity for it can only become masters after a lifetime of practice and discipline. Tiber Septim himself spoke the tongue, but again, it was a skill developed over his entire life.

“It’s safe to say that in the thousands of years of recorded history, throughout dozens of races and billions of people, nobody in the history of Tamriel has ever been able to do what you can. Not even the dragons themselves.”

Kaja took a deep breath. “So what you’re saying is that dragon attack was caused by me?”

“Not  _ caused by _ ,” Ulfric said, quick to allay her fears. “Not caused by you. No, never caused by. But I believe fully that your arrival here, at this spot, today, was meant to be in one way or another.”

“I don’t know if I like that,” Kaja said, almost in a whisper. “I thought I was finally getting free of all this. I thought.”

Ulfric stirred, and rose slowly and heavily from his chair to sit on the floor next to Kaja and Ralof. He looked surprisingly human, sweaty and tired, without the huge fur mantle on his shoulders. “I believe,” he said, “that there are certain things in life that are meant to be.” He spoke slowly, clearly, in a warm, soft tone. Like a father telling his children a story before bedtime. Kaja leaned closer to him, and let her fingers brush against his on the rug before the fireplace.

“Now, these things, these happenings, are very rare, and only come once in a lifetime, if that often. And only to those of us who are very, very special. Times like these, when the winds are changing, when you can feel the threads of destiny about you, these are auspicious days. 

“I believe that this is no time to despair, Kaja,” he said. “The fact that you have this talent, this gift, means that you’re not only special, but that you’ve been chosen by the forces that be to play a part in whatever happens next. 

“That’s not to say that we have no control over what happens to us, that what we do is futile. Quite the opposite. These may be the most critical days of our lives. But what this means is that there’s a light in you. That you’ve been blessed. That the gods themselves are watching over you. The events that follow today, whatever they are, whatever happens to us - they will all revolve around you. You will be the hub around which the wheel spins, you will be the eye of the storm. You will be the spark that starts the fire.”

A swell of disappointment rose up in Kaja’s chest. “I just wanted to let go. I’m tired of pretending, I’m tired of someone else trying to tell me who to be. I just want to let it all go,” she repeated.

“This isn’t going to be something you can get away from,” Ulfric said. “But think of it this way. I’ve only just told you that you may be the single most important person in all of mortal history - but far be it from me to tell you what that means.”

“You’ve just spent five minutes telling me what it means,” Kaja argued. “You basically said that this  _ thing _ , this event, whatever it is, is going to follow me around until I do something. I don’t know if I believe I’m the most important person  _ ever _ , but still, don’t I get a say in all of this? That’s all I ever wanted.”

“You get the most say out of all of us,” Ulfric continued. “You’ll get to determine how the rest of us live our lives from here on out. If I’m right - and I won’t say whether I am or not, but I do have a hunch. But if I’m right, you’ll have the power over the likes of me, and Tullius, and the Thalmor, and the Emperor himself. You not only get to do what you please - and you  _ must, must _ follow your heart and your conscience, Kaja. From this day forward, you must afford yourself all the freedoms that the gods meant for you to have. 

“Think, they blessed you with incredible skills and talents, an arm that cannot be matched in combat, a mind that cannot be deceived, and a will that cannot be broken. They delight in seeing us work and live as free men and women, and I  _ know _ that they would want that for you, most of all, more than anybody. More than anyone else in the whole world. More than anything!

“The dragon might have saved my life, in a sense, but it also set you free,” Ulfric said. “We pray for signs all our lives, we pray for divine help - and Akatosh himself sent us one of his children today.”

“People  _ died _ ,” Kaja said. 

“And others lived!” Ulfric said, his eyes shining with excitement. “Not to say that it was a good sign or a bad one; but it was a sign nonetheless, and now you’re free.”

“Is that why you called me a daughter of Akatosh earlier?” Kaja asked. “Daugher of Skyrim, I understand. Shor is another name for Lorkhan, so that I understand, too, but Akatosh?”

“The father of dragons,” Ulfric said. “They were his firstborn, and were created to be the most noble and awesome of creatures.”

Kaja drew her knees to her chest. “And you think I’m like them.”

“I know you are,” Ulfric said. “Beautiful, powerful, resilient, and wise. But most of all, you have an indomitable spirit the likes of which I’ve never encountered before. The fight in you, the stubbornness, the resolve. The sense that Skyrim is your home, even though you’ve never been here before. The unquenchable thirst for freedom.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Kaja asked.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “And I mean that. Anything. Never let anyone tell you no, never let anyone take away your power. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, that the fact you’re so special  _ also _ means that you’re  _ free _ . And you’ve had the authority to fight for your own freedom all along, and now you finally have the chance to use it. All you need to know is that you need not ever, and I mean  _ ever _ , let anyone rein you in ever again. Not me, not anyone. No lord, no king, no emperor, not even the Divines themselves.”

* * *

 

Kaja fell asleep soon after the sun set. She lay sprawled out in her underwear in front of Hod and Gerdur’s fireplace, wrapped up snugly in the blue sash Ulfric had given her. Hod and Gerdur had decided to put the small band of Stormcloaks up for the night, instead of renting them rooms at the Sleeping Giant Inn.

Before everyone went to bed, Gerdur assured Ulfric that he and his men weren’t in any danger. Even though Riverwood was about half Stormcloak supporters and half Imperial supporters, the atmosphere wasn’t politically charged like it was in some bigger towns. She said it was more out of courtesy towards the innkeepers at the Sleeping Giant, who wasn’t aligned either way. Gerdur said she didn’t want to press the innkeepers, Orgnar and Delphine, into boarding soldiers for a war they weren’t interested in.

Ulfric didn’t sleep, though. His men were exhausted from two days of fighting, hiking, and trying to escape from the legion. Ulfric had managed to get some rest between Darkwater and Helgen, though. He couldn’t quiet his mind at all that night. Strategies for the war ahead, plans for the Eastmarch during the winter months, and political nuances and maneuvers he had learned over the years swirled around in his head and kept him up. He sat slouched in the comfy chair before the fireplace, staring into the embers. He had a headache and his eyes were itchy and sore with tired, but he couln’t bring himself to relax. Not yet.

But the gangly young woman sprawled out before the fire gave him hope. 

A soft, but insistent knock came at the door. A muffled voice floated in from outside. “Ralof,” it said. “Ralof,” again, and it sounded like whoever was out there was about to burst into tears. “For Shor’s sake, open the door.”

Ralof stirred from the nook in the corner where he’d been sleeping sitting up. He exchanged a significant glance with Ulfric. The jarl nodded, and Ralof opened the cottage door. An imperial soldier stood framed in the moonlight, shaking, shoulders drooping, head down, reaching out for support.

“Hadvar!” Ralof exclaimed, tucking both arms under his best friend and all but dragging him in. “Thank the Nine, you’re alive,” Ralof said, placing Hadvar gently down before the dwindling fire, next to Kaja, still asleep. 

“I thought you were dead,” Hadvar choked. “I had to stay and clean up - put out the fires - I was terrified - I thought you were dead and buried under the rubble - you couldn’t even tell if they were Stormcloak or Imperial anymore - they were all burned so badly -” 

Ralof covered his friend with a wool blanket and held his hand tightly. “What happened?” he asked.

Hadvar took a breath and made an effort to speak. “The legion has left Helgen,” he said. “We stayed to help the survivors, the refugees. I haven’t - Ralof, I haven’t slept a minute in four days - at least you got to rest in the prison -” Exhaustion finally overcame fear, and shaking gasps gave way to silent tears. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to see you die. I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

“I pray that we never have to come face-to-face in uniform again,” Ralof said, almost whispering. “I don’t blame you. You’re more important to me than all that. You’re my brother. No war could part us.” He rubbed small circles on the back of Hadvar’s hand, trying to soothe him to sleep. “Shor permitting, we will come back to this village as old men, you and I. We’ll be able to spend the rest of our days together, here, and someday, it won’t matter whose side we were on. I’ll sit next to you when I’m too old to walk, I’ll drink next to you and we’ll tell stories until we’re too old to remember.”

Hadvar either fell asleep or fainted; it was hard to tell. But Ralof brushed the dirty hair off his friend’s forehead, and tucked him in to rest. He put another log on the fire for good measure, and stoked it.

Without any ado, Ulfric stood up. “You heard the man. I must return to Windhelm immediately, before the legion has time to regroup,” he said. “If you lend me a horse, I will see that you’re repaid.”

“I’ll walk you to the stable,” Ralof said, and the two left the house and crossed the street to the village stable. “Will you be taking the road along the plains, or the pass south through the Rift?”

“The south pass is more dangerous, especially at night,” Ulfric said. “Then again, I’d be that much harder to find in a narrow mountain gorge than on the plains along the White River. If I didn’t have to go through Helgen to the pass, I’d consider it. But I’d rather risk being sighted than running into the legion. The plains it is.” Ulfric began the process of saddling a horse.

Ralof watched him work. “I get the impression that Kaja wouldn’t like you to leave without saying goodbye to her. Or without taking her with you, for that matter.”

“She can always take the road to the Eastmarch come morning, if that’s what she wants,” Ulfric replied. “It might do her good to get out on her own. Hike, hunt, see the land, learn the roads.”

“Yes, but what’s to become of her?” Ralof asked. 

“Whatever she wishes. We’re her brothers, not her masters.”

“Of course, but, you know what I mean,” Ralof continued. “I have every confidence in her, but where is she going to live? Will she join the rebellion? Do you want her to report to Windhelm with me?”

“Naturally she has my invitation. I want every Stormcloak ready to mobilize within a fortnight. We must act swiftly, before Tullius has time to figure out where we’re hitting him. And hit we must. Hard.”

“What about Jarl Balgruuf? Is it still war if he’s not on our side?”

Ulfric sighed, mounting his horse. “It’ll have to be. We can’t afford to wait until we have majority support. It’d be better if he was with us, but we can’t count on his allegiance. He knows he’s the last one to decide. He knows that his endorsement of either the Empire or myself will tip the scales irreversibly. So he’ll put off making a decision as long as he can. Soon, when the winds are at our backs, I plan to send him my ax.”

“That’s bold, almost too bold,” Ralof said, helping Ulfric secure the last of the saddlebags. “Do you think he’ll join us?”

“I hope and pray that he will. I want to get this done in as few battles as possible. The legion has no presence in Whiterun at the moment, so if Balgruuf sides with us, we can offer him troops. We could potentially occupy the city without having to fight for it.”

“So Kaja and I will report to Windhelm in two weeks.”

“No less than.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Oh, and Ralof?” Ulfric said, taking up the reins. “One more thing. Kaja - she is truly our sister. A daugher of Skyrim, and of Shor, and a child of Akatosh himself. We must not force her to do anything. But we must protect her. Not from herself, not from the world - but from those who would seek her out and do her harm.”

Ralof nodded. “I think I understand. She - you take a special interest in her. You spent time talking to her, listening to her, holding her hands, looking into her eyes. That destiny bit, that wasn’t just idle chatter. She’s more than just a recruit to you, isn’t she.”

“Much more than that,” Ulfric affirmed. “She’s going to win the war for me.” And without explanation, he spurred the horse on and disappeared into the hills.


End file.
